^  ^ 


'"  The  Kin,i>  will  not  pUiy  ii^iin,  M.  Ic  />//<".'" 

l>ravvn  by  1'.  G.  JUANNIUT.       l'liotni;r;iviiri-d  by   (Jourii.  iV   (  . .. 

KINGS  IN   KXII.K.     /'V««/;'.v//Vv 


K  NGS    N  EX:  LE 


ALPHONSE    DAUDET 


TRANSLATED    BY 

KATHARINE    PRESCOTT    WORMELEY 


BOSTON 
LITTLE,  BROWN,  &   COMPANY 


Copyright,  1899,  1900, 
BY  LITTLE,  BROWN,  AND  COMPANY. 


All  rights  reserved. 


SSntbrrsttg  Press : 
JOHN  WILSON  AND  SON,  CAMBRIDGE,  U.  S.  A. 


KINGS  IN  EXILE. 


i. 

THE  FIRST  DAY. 

FREDERICA  had  slept  since  morning.  A  sleep 
of  fever  and  fatigue,  with  dreams  of  her  distresses 
as  fallen,  exiled  queen ;  a  sleep  still  shaken  by  the 
din  and  agony  of  a  two  months  siege,  broken  by 
bloody,  hostile  visions,  sobs,  shudders,  spasms  of 
strained  nerves,  from  which  she  waked  with  a  start 
of  terror. 

"  Zara?  .  .     Where  is  Zara?  .  ."  she  cried. 

One  of  her  women  came  to  the  bedside  and  re- 
assured her  softly.  H.  R.  H.  the  Comte  de  Zara 
was  sleeping  quietly  in  his  room ;  Mme.  fiteonore 
was  with  him. 

"And  the  king?" 

"  Gone  out  since  mid-day  in  one  of  the  hotel 
carriages." 

"Alone?" 

No.  His  Majesty  had  taken  the  Councillor 
Boscovich  with  him.  While  the  woman  was  speak- 
ing in  her  Dalmatian  patois,  hard  and  sonorous 
as  a  flood  rolling  pebbles,  the  queen  felt  her  fears 
diminish ;  little  by  little  the  peaceful  hotel  cham- 


2033209 


2  Kings  in  Exile. 

ber,  which  she  had  scarcely  seen  on  arriving  in 
the  early  dawn,  seemed  by  its  very  commonplace- 
ness  to  be  comfortable  and  reassuring,  with  its 
light  hangings,  its  tall  mirrors,  the  woolly  white 
of  its  carpet,  on  which  the  silent  flight  of  the 
swallows  fell  in  shadow  through  the  blinds,  cross- 
ing one  another  like  large  night  moths. 

"  Already  five  o'clock !  .  .  Come,  Petscha,  dress 
me  quickly.  .  .  I  am  ashamed  to  have  slept  so 
long." 

Five  o'clock,  and  the  loveliest  day  with  which 
the  summer  of  1872  had  as  yet  delighted  the 
Parisians.  When  the  queen  stepped  out  upon 
the  balcony,  that  long  balcony  of  the  Hotel  des 
Pyramides,  above  which  its  fifteen  windows  veiled 
in  pink  cambric  look  down  upon  the  finest  part 
of  the  Rue  de  Rivoli,  she  marvelled.  Below,  in 
the  broad  roadway,  mingling  the  sound  of  their 
wheels  with  the  light  rain  of  the  water-carts,  was 
an  uninterrupted  line  of  carriages  going  to  the 
Bois  with  a  twinkling  of  axles,  harness,  and  gay 
dresses,  flying  past  in  a  gale  of  haste.  Then, 
beyond  the  crowd  which  pressed  against  the  gilded 
railings  of  the  Tuileries,  the  fascinated  eyes  of 
the  queen  fell  on  a  luminous  confusion  of  white 
gowns,  blond  hair,  dazzling  silks,  aerial  games, 
and  all  that  gayety  of  Sunday-best  and  childhood 
with  which  the  great  Parisian  garden  fills  its  ter- 
races on  sunny  days,  until  they  rested  delight- 
edly on  the  dome  of  verdure,  the  vast  green  roof 
of  broad  and  spreading  leafage  made  by  the 


The  First  Day.  3 

horse-chestnut  trees,  which  sheltered,  at  this  par- 
ticular hour,  a  military  band,  to  the  brass  bursts 
of  which  the  shouts  of  the  children  answered. 
The  bitter  rancour  in  the  heart  of  the  exile  sub- 
sided, little  by  little,  before  that  scene  of  gayety. 
A  comfortable  warmth  seemed  to  wrap  itself  about 
her,  clinging  yet  supple  as  a  silken  net;  her 
cheeks,  faded  by  privations  and  long  night- 
watches,  renewed  their  rosy  life.  The  thought 
came  to  her:  "  Dieu!  how  good  this  is!" 

The  heaviest  misfortunes  have  these  sudden  and 
unconscious  comforts.  It  is  not  from  human  be- 
ings that  they  come,  but  from  the  multiplying  elo- 
quence of  things.  To  this  deposed  queen,  cast 
with  her  husband  and  child  into  a  land  of  exile 
by  one  of  those  sudden  upheavals  of  a  people  that 
make  one  think  of  earthquakes  accompanied  by 
yawning  abysses,  flashes  of  lightning,  and  volcanic 
eruptions,  —  to  this  woman,  whose  brow,  rather  low 
but  still  so  proud,  bore  the  mark,  and,  as  it  were, 
the  furrow  of  one  of  the  noblest  crowns  of  Europe, 
no  human  words  could  have  brought  consolation. 
Yet  here  was  Nature,  joyous,  fresh,  and  renewed  in 
this  wondrous  summer  of  Paris,  which  has  some- 
thing of  a  hothouse  and  of  the  soft  coolness  of 
river  lands,  speaking  to  her  of  hope,  of  pacifica- 
tion, of  resurrection. 

But  while  she  thus  allowed  her  nerves  to  relax, 
her  eyes  to  drink  in  rest  from  that  verdurous 
horizon,  suddenly  the  exiled  woman  quivered.  At 
her  left,  over  there,  near  the  entrance  of  the 
garden,  a  spectral  building  reared  itself,  made  of 


4  Kings  in  Exile. 

calcined  walls  and  scorched  columns,  roofless,  the 
windows  mere  blue  holes  looking  into  space,  the 
frontage  opening  to  a  perspective  of  ruin,  while 
quite  at  the  end,  above  the  Seine,  was  a  pavilion, 
almost  entire,  merely  touched  and  gilded  by  the 
flames  which  had  blackened  the  iron  of  its  balco- 
nies. That  was  all  that  remained  of  the  palace 
of  the  Tuileries. 

The  sight  caused  her  deep  emotion,  the  giddi- 
ness of  a  sudden  fall,  heart-foremost,  on  those 
walls.  Ten  years  ago,  but  it  was  not  yet  ten  — 
oh !  what  sad  chance  was  this,  and  how  prophetic 
it  seemed  to  her  to  come  and  lodge  before  these 
ruins  —  ten  years  ago  she  had  lived  in  that  palace 
with  her  husband.  It  was  in  the  spring  of  1864. 
Just  three  months  married,  she  was  travelling  to 
the  various  Courts  in  all  her  joys  as  hereditary 
princess  and  wife.  Everybody  liked  her  and  wel- 
comed her.  Especially  at  the  Tuileries,  what  balls, 
what  fetes !  Beneath  those  crumbling  walls  she 
saw  them  again.  She  saw  the  vast  and  splendid 
galleries  dazzling  with  lights  and  jewels,  the  Court 
robes  floating  on  the  grand  stairway  between  two 
hedges  of  glittering  cuirasses ;  and  that  invisible 
music  now  rising  in  gusts  from  the  garden,  seemed 
to  her  Valdteufel's  orchestra  in  the  Salle  des 
Mardchaux.  Was  it  not  to  that  gay,  springing 
tune  that  she  had  danced  with  her  cousin  Maxi- 
milian just  one  week  before  he  started  for  Mexico? 
.  .  Yes,  indeed  it  was.  .  .  A  quadrille  of  emperors 
and  kings,  of  queens  and  empresses,  whose  stately 
interweavings  and  august  faces  this  air  from  La 


The  First  Day.  5 

Belle  Helene  brought  back  before  her.  .  .  Max,  so 
anxious,  gnawing  his  blond  beard ;  Carlotta  facing 
him  next  to  Napoleon,  radiant,  transfigured  by  this 
joy  of  being  empress.  .  .  Where  were  they  now, 
the  dancers  of  that  beautiful  quadrille?  All  dead, 
exiled,  or  mad  !  Was  God  no  longer  on  the  side 
of  kings?  .  . 

Then  she  remembered  all  she  had  suffered  since 
the  death  of  old  Leopold,  which  placed  upon 
her  head  the  double  crown  of  Illyria  and  Dalmatia : 
her  daughter,  her  first-born,  carried  off  in  the  midst 
of  the  coronation  fetes  by  one  of  those  strange, 
nameless  maladies  which  prove  the  exhaustion  of 
a  blood  and  the  end  of  a  race ;  and  so  suddenly 
that  the  tapers  of  the  death-watch  mingled  with 
the  illuminations  of  the  town,  and  no  time  was 
given  to  take  down  the  flags  in  the  Cathedral  for 
the  day  of  the  funeral.  Then,  beside  this  great 
sorrow,  beside  the  transports  of  fear  caused  inces- 
santly by  the  feeble  health  of  her  son,  other  sor- 
rows known  to  herself  alone  lay  hidden  in  the 
most  secret  corners  of  her  woman's  soul.  .  .  Alas  ! 
the  heart  of  the  peoples  is  not  more  faithful  than 
that  of  kings.  One  day,  without  knowing  why  or 
wherefore,  this  Illyria,  which  had  always  so  feted 
them,  was  disaffected  to  its  princes.  Then  fol- 
lowed misconceptions,  obstinacy,  distrust,  and 
finally  hatred,  —  that  horrible  hatred  of  a  whole 
nation,  that  hatred  which  she  felt  in  the  air,  in  the 
silence  of  the  streets,  the  irony  of  glances,  the 
frowning  of  bent  brows ;  a  hatred  which  made  her 
fear  to  show  herself  at  a  window,  and  held  her 


6  Kings  in  Exile. 

back  in  the  depths  of  her  carriage  in  her  short, 
infrequent  drives.  Oh !  those  shouts  of  death 
beneath  the  terraces  of  her  castle  of  Leybach ! 
As  she  looked  at  the  ruins  of  the  palace  of  the 
kings  of  France  she  thought  she  heard  them  still. 
She  saw  the  meeting  of  the  Council,  the  ghastly 
ministers  wild  with  fear  entreating  the  king  to 
abdicate  .  .  .  then  the  flight  in  peasants'  clothes 
through  the  darkness,  across  the  mountains  .  .  . 
the  villages  uprisen  and  howling,  drunk  with 
liberty  like  the  towns  .  .  .  bonfires  everywhere  on 
the  heights  .  .  .  the  burst  of  tender  tears  that  came 
to  her  in  the  midst  of  this  great  disaster  on  finding 
milk  in  a  hut  for  her  child's  supper  .  .  .  and  lastly, 
the  sudden  resolution  with  which  she  inspired  the 
king  to  throw  himself  into  Ragusa,  still  faithful  to 
them,  and  the  two  months  there  .  .  .  months  of 
privations  and  anguish,  the  town  besieged,  bom- 
barded, her  child  ill,  almost  dying  of  hunger,  the 
shame  of  a  surrender  at  last,  the  dreadful  embarca- 
tion  in  the  midst  of  a  silent  and  weary  crowd  .  .  . 
and  then  the  French  ship  bearing  them  away  to 
other  miseries,  to  the  chill,  the  unknown  of  exile ; 
while  behind  them  floated  the  flag  of  the  Illyrian 
Republic,  new  and  all-conquering,  above  their  bat- 
tered castle.  .  .  The  Tuileries,  in  ruins  before  her, 
recalled  all  this. 

"Paris  is  fine,  is  it  not?"  said  a  voice  behind 
her  that  was  young  and  joyous  in  spite  of  its  nasal 
tone. 

The  king  had  come  out  upon  the  balcony,  hold- 
ing in  his  arms  the  little  prince,  and  was  showing 


The  First  Day.  7 

him  that  horizon  of  trees,  roofs,  cupolas,  and  the 
rush  of  the  street  in  the  beautiful  light  of  the  clos- 
ing day. 

"  Oh,  yes  !  very  fine  !  .  .  "  said  the  child,  a  poor 
little  boy  some  five  or  six  years  old,  with  drawn, 
sharp  features,  hair  too  blond  and  closely  cut,  as 
if  after  illness.  He  looked  about  him  with  the 
gentle  little  smile  of  a  sufferer,  surprised  to  hear 
no  longer  the  cannon  of  the  siege,  and  brightening 
visibly  from  the  gayety  about  him.  To  him,  exile 
came  in  happy  fashion.  Nor  did  the  king  seem 
sad ;  he  had  brought  back  from  his  two  hours  on 
the  boulevard  a  brilliant,  exhilarated  countenance 
which  formed  a  contrast  to  the  grief  of  the  queen. 
They  were,  in  any  case,  two  absolutely  distinct 
types :  he,  slender,  delicate,  a  dead-white  skin  and 
crisp  black  hair  and  moustache,  which  he  twisted 
perpetually  with  a  hand  too  pale  and  supple,  hand- 
some eyes  but  rather  shifty,  and  something  in 
his  glance  that  was  irresolute  and  childish  and 
made  a  spectator  say,  although  he  was  past  his 
thirtieth  year :  "  How  young  he  is  !  "  The  queen, 
on  the  contrary,  a  robust  Dalmatian  with  a  grave 
air  and  little  gesture,  was  the  real  male  of  the  two, 
in  spite  of  the  transparent  splendour  of  her  com- 
plexion, and  her  magnificent  hair,  of  that  Venetian 
auburn  in  which  the  Orient  seems  to  have  mingled 
the  tawny,  ruddy  tones  of  its  henna.  Christian,  in 
her  presence,  had  the  constrained,  rather  embar- 
rassed manner  of  a  husband  who  has  accepted  too 
much  devotion,  too  many  sacrifices.  He  inquired 
gently  about  her  health,  whether  she  had  slept, 


8  Kings  in  Exile. 

and  how  she  felt  after  her  journey.  She  replied 
with  measured  gentleness,  full  of  condescension, 
but  in  reality  was  thinking  only  of  her  son,  whose 
nose  and  cheeks  she  felt,  and  whose  motions  she 
watched  with  brooding  anxiety. 

"  He  is  already  better  than  he  was  down  there," 
said  Christian,  in  a  low  tone. 

"  Yes,  the  colour  is  coming  back  to  his  cheeks," 
she  replied  in  a  tone  of  intimacy  they  never  used 
except  when  speaking  to  each  other  of  the  child. 

As  for  him,  he  smiled  to  both  of  them,  and  drew 
their  foreheads  close  together  in  his  pretty  caress, 
as  if  aware  that  his  two  little  arms  formed  the 
sole  real  link  between  these  beings  so  dissimilar. 
Below  them,  on  the  sidewalk,  curious  spectators, 
already  informed  of  the  arrival  of  the  princes,  had 
stopped  to  raise  their  eyes  to  this  King  and  Queen 
of  Illyria,  whose  heroic  defence  of  Ragusa  made 
them  celebrated,  and  whose  portraits  were  figuring 
on  the  front  page  of  all  the  illustrated  papers. 
Little  by  little,  just  as  people  look  at  an  escaped 
parrot  or  the  pigeons  on  a  roof,  idlers  had 
gathered,  their  noses  in  the  air,  without  knowing 
really  what  they  gazed  at.  A  crowd  formed  itself 
in  front  of  the  hotel  and  presently  all  eyes  were 
fixed  on  this  young  couple  in  travelling  costume, 
the  child's  fair  head  above  them,  as  though  up- 
lifted by  the  hope  of  his  vanquished  parents  and 
the  joy  they  felt  in  having  brought  him  alive 
through  that  awful  storm. 

"  Are  you  coming  in,  Frederica?  "  said  the  king, 
annoyed  by  the  notice  of  so  many  persons. 


The  First  Day.  9 

But  she,  her  head  high,  like  a  queen  well-used 
to  face  the  antipathy  of  crowds  — 

"  Why  should  I  ?  "  she  said ;  "  I  am  very  well 
here  on  this  balcony." 

"  Because  ...  I  was  forgetting  it  ...  Rosen  is 
here,  with  his  son  and  daughter-in-law.  .  .  He  asks 
to  see  you.  .  ." 

At  the  name  of  Rosen,  which  recalled  to  her  so 
many  good  and  noble  services,  the  eyes  of  the 
queen  lighted  up. 

"  My  brave  duke !  I  was  expecting  him  .  .  ." 
she  said ;  and  then,  as  she  turned  to  cast  a  haughty 
glance  upon  the  street  before  re-entering  the  room, 
a  man  in  front  of  her  sprang  upon  the  stone 
base  of  the  Tuileries  railings,  over-topping  for  a 
moment  the  whole  crowd.  This  was  what  had  hap- 
pened at  Leybach  when  shots  were  fired  through 
their  window.  Frederica  threw  herself  back  with 
a  vague  expectation  of  something  of  the  same 
kind.  A  noble  brow,  a  raised  hat,  hair  that  was 
streaming  in  the  sunlight,  while  a  calm,  strong 
voice  cried  out  above  the  noises  of  the  crowd, 
"  Vive  le  roi !  "  was  all  that  she  saw  of  that  un- 
known friend  who  dared,  in  the  face  of  republican 
Paris,  before  the  crumbling  Tuileries,  to  offer  a 
welcome  to  these  discrowned  sovereigns.  This 
sympathetic  greeting,  of  which  she  had  been  so 
long  deprived,  made  an  impression  on  the  queen 
like  that  of  a  brightly  burning  fire  after  a  march 
through  bitter  cold.  She  was  warmed  from  the 
heart  to  the  skin,  and  the  sight  of  old  Rosen  com- 
pleted this  vivid  and  beneficent  reaction. 


io  Kings  in  Exile. 

The  Due  de  Rosen,  general  and  former  chief  of 
the  Royal  military  household,  had  quitted  Illyria 
three  years  earlier,  when  the  king  took  from  him 
his  post  of  honour  and  confidence  to  give  it  to  a 
liberal ;  favouring  thus  the  new  ideas  to  the  detri- 
ment of  what  was  then  called  at  Leybach  the 
queen's  party.  Certainly  he  had  reason  to  blame 
Christian,  who  sacrificed  him  coldly,  and  suffered 
him  to  go  without  regret,  without  farewell  —  him, 
the  victor  of  Mostar,  of  Livno,  the  hero  of  the 
grand  Montenegrin  wars.  After  selling  his  castles, 
estates,  and  property,  thus  characterizing  his  de- 
parture with  all  the  dignity  of  a  protestation,  the 
old  general  settled  in  Paris,  married  his  son  there, 
and  during  three  long  years  of  vain  expectation 
felt  his  anger  against  royal  ingratitude  increased 
by  the  griefs  of  emigration  and  the  melancholy 
of  a  life  unoccupied.  Yet,  the  moment  that  he 
heard  of  the  arrival  of  his  princes  he  went  to 
them  at  once  without  hesitating;  and  now,  stiff 
and  erect  in  the  middle  of  the  salon,  his  colossal 
form  rising  almost  to  the  height  of  the  chandelier, 
he  was  awaiting  with  such  emotion  the  favour  of 
a  gracious  welcome  that  his  long  pandour  legs 
could  be  seen  to  tremble,  his  broad,  short  breast 
in  a  tight  blue  military  coat  to  pant  beneath  the 
grand  cordon  of  the  Order.  His  head  alone,  the 
small  head  of  a  hawk,  steely  glance,  and  beak  of 
prey,  remained  impassible,  with  its  scanty  white 
hair  bristling,  and  the  hundred  little  wrinkles  of 
a  skin  shrivelled  up  under  fire.  The  king,  who 
did  not  like  scenes  and  was  rather  embarrassed  by 


The  First  Day.  1 1 

this  interview,  got  through  it  by  taking  a  playful 
tone  of  off-hand  cordiality. 

"  Well,  general,"  he  said,  coming  up  to  him 
with  outstretched  hands,  "you  were  right,  after 
all  ...  I  let  the  reins  drop  too  much  ...  I  allowed 
myself  to  be  flung — and  flat,  too." 

Then,  seeing  that  the  old  servitor  bent  his  knee, 
he  raised  him  with  a  motion  full  of  dignity  and 
pressed  him  long  against  his  breast.  But  no  one 
could  have  prevented  the  duke  from  kneeling 
before  his  queen,  to  whom  the  respectfully  pas-, 
sionate  caress  of  that  ancient  moustache  on  her 
hand  caused  a  strange  emotion. 

"  Ah  !  my  poor  Rosen  !  .  .  my  poor  Rosen  !  .  ." 
she  murmured. 

Gently  she  closed  her  eyes  that  her  tears  might 
not  be  seen.  But  those  she  had  shed  for  years 
had  left  their  trace  upon  the  delicate,  crimpled 
skin  of  her  eyelids,  together  with  the  vigils,  the 
distresses,  the  disquietudes,  all  those  murderous 
wounds  that  a  woman  believes  she  is  keeping  in 
the  depths  of  her  being  while  they  mount  to  the 
surface — just  as  every  agitation  of  the  water  is 
seen  to  furrow  it  in  visible  rings.  For  the  space 
of  a  second  that  noble  face  with  its  pure  lines  had 
a  weary,  sorrowful  expression,  which  did  not  es- 
cape the  eye  of  the'  old  soldier.  "  How  she  must 
have  suffered  !  "  he  thought,  as  he  looked  at  her. 
Then,  to  hide  his  emotion,  he  rose  abruptly,  turned 
to  his  son  and  daughter-in-law,  who  had  remained 
at  the  farther  end  of  the  room,  and,  in  the  same 
stern  tone  with  which  he  had  shouted  in  the 


12  Kings  in  Exile. 

streets  of  Leybach,  "  Sabres  up  !  .  .  Charge  that 
canaille  !  .  ."  he  commanded :  — 

"  Colette,  Herbert,  come  here  and  salute  your 
queen." 

Prince  Herbert  de  Rosen,  almost  as  tall  as  his 
father,  with  the  jaw  of  a  horse,  innocent  and  doll- 
like  cheeks,  came  forward,  followed  by  his  young 
wife.  He  walked  with  difficulty,  leaning  on  a  cane. 
Eight  months  earlier,  at  the  Chantilly  races,  he 
had  broken  a  leg  and  a  few  ribs.  The  general 
did  not  omit  to  remark  that  if  it  had  not  been  for 
that  accident,  which  put  his  son's  life  in  danger, 
they  would  both  have  hastened  eagerly  to  shut 
themselves  up  in  Ragusa. 

"  And  I  should  have  gone  with  you,  father," 
interrupted  the  princess,  in  a  tone  of  heroism  not 
at  all  in  keeping  with  her  name  of  Colette  and 
her  gay  and  lively  little  cat's  nose  beneath  frizzles 
of  light  hair. 

The  queen  could  not  restrain  a  smile  as  she  held 
out  her  hand  very  cordially.  Christian,  twisting 
his  moustache,  stared,  with  the  interest  of  an  ama- 
teur and  eager  curiosity,  at  this  frisky  little  Parisian, 
this  pretty  bird  of  fashion  with  its  long  and  va- 
riegated plumage,  all  petticoats  and  flounces, 
whose  decked-out  daintiness  was  so  great  a  change 
from  the  noble  features  and  majestic  type  of  the 
land  from  which  he  came.  "  That  devil  of  a 
Herbert!  how  did  he  manage  to  get  such  a 
jewel?"  thought  the  king,  envying  the  companion 
of  his  childhood,  the  tall  booby  with  prominent 
eyes,  and  hair  parted  in  the  middle  and  plastered 


The  First  Day.  13 

down  in  the  Russian  fashion  on  either  side  of  a 
short  and  narrow  forehead.  Then  the  idea  came 
to  him  that  if  this  type  of  woman  was  lacking  in 
Illyria,  in  Paris  it  filled  the  streets ;  and  exile  began 
to  seem  to  him  very  definitely  endurable.  At  any 
rate,  this  exile  could  not  last  long.  The  Illyrians 
would  soon  have  enough  of  their  republic.  It 
was  only  an  affair  of  two  or  three  months  to  be 
spent  away  from  his  own  country,  a  royal  holi- 
day, which  he  would  certainly  employ  as  gayly  as 
possible. 

"What  do  you  think,  general?"  he  said  laugh- 
ing ;  "  they  are  already  trying  to  make  me  buy  a 
house.  .  .  A  gentleman,  an  Englishman,  came  to 
me  this  morning.  .  .  He  engages  to  provide  me 
with  a  magnificent  mansion,  furnished,  carpeted, 
horses  in  the  stable,  carriages  in  the  coachhouse, 
linen,  plate,  servants,  establishment  all  complete, 
in  forty-eight  hours  and  in  whatever  quarter  I  like 
best." 

"  I  know  your  Englishman,  Sire ;  that  is  Tom 
Levis,  an  agent  for  foreigners.  .  ." 

"  Yes,  I  think  it  was  .  .  .  the  name  sounded  like 
that.  .  .  Have  you  had  dealings  with  him  ?  " 

"  All  strangers  coming  to  Paris  receive  a  visit 
from  Tom  and  his  cab.  .  .  But  I  wish  for  your  Maj- 
esty's sake  the  acquaintance  may  end  there.  .  ." 

The  particular  attention  with  which  Prince  Her- 
bert, as  soon  as  mention  was  made  of  Tom  Levis, 
began  to  consider  the  ribbons  on  his  low  shoes  and 
the  stripes  of  his  silk  stockings,  and  the  furtive 
glance  the  princess  cast  at  her  husband,  notified 


14  Kings  in  Exile. 

Christian  that  if  he  wanted  information  about  the 
illustrious  speculator  of  the  Rue  Royale  those  two 
young  persons  could  furnish  it.  But  how,  he  said 
aloud,  could  the  services  of  the  Levis  agency  be 
useful  to  him?  He  wanted  neither  house  nor  car- 
riages, expecting  to  pass  the  few  months  of  their 
stay  in  Paris  at  this  hotel. 

"  Is  not  that  your  opinion,  Frederica?" 

"  Oh !  certainly,  yes ;  that  is  wisest,"  replied 
the  queen,  though  in  her  heart  she  shared  none  of 
the  king's  illusions  as  to  their  return,  nor  his  liking 
for  transient  settlement. 

Old  Rosen,  in  his  turn,  risked  a  few  observations. 
This  inn  life  seemed  to  him  scarcely  suitable  to  the 
dignity  of  the  house  of  Illyria.  Paris,  at  this  mo- 
ment, was  full  of  exiled  sovereigns.  They  all  lived 
in  sumptuous  state.  The  King  of  Westphalia  oc- 
cupied a  magnificent  residence  in  the  Rue  de  Neu- 
bourg,  with  a  pavilion  annexed  for  the  household 
service.  The  house  of  the  Queen  of  Galicia  in  the 
Champs  filysdes,  was  a  perfect  palace  of  luxury  and 
kept  in  royal  state.  The  King  of  Palermo  had  a 
fine  establishment  at  Saint-Mand6,  numerous  horses 
in  the  stables,  a  battalion  of  aides-de-camp.  Even 
down  to  the  Duke  of  Palma  in  his  little  house  at 
Passy,  none  of  them  were  without  the  semblance 
of  a  Court,  and  five  or  six  generals  at  their  table. 

"  No  doubt,  no  doubt,"  said  Christian,  impa- 
tiently. .  .  "  But  it  is  not  the  same  thing.  .  .  Those 
people  will  never  leave  Paris  again;  for  them, 
things  are  decided,  finished,  whereas  for  us  ... 
Besides,  there  is  a  very  good  reason  why  we 


The  First  Day.  15 

should  not  buy  a  palace,  friend  Rosen.  They 
have  taken  all  we  had,  over  there.  .  .  A  few  hun- 
dred thousand  francs  with  the  Rothschilds  in 
Naples,  and  our  poor  crown,  which  Mme.  de  Silvis 
saved  in  a  hat-box,  that  is  all  we  have  left.  .  . 
Just  fancy  the  marquise  making  that  long  journey 
into  exile,  on  foot,  in  trains,  in  carriages,  always 
holding  her  precious  hat-box  in  hand.  Twas 
droll,  oh,  so  droll!" 

His  childishness  getting  the  upper  hand,  he  be- 
gan to  laugh  at  their  distress  as  if  it  was  the  fun- 
niest thing  in  the  world. 

The  duke  did  not  laugh. 

"  Sire,"  he  said,  "  you  did  me  the  honour  to  as- 
sure me  just  now  that  you  regretted  having  kept 
me  so  long  out  of  your  councils  and  your  heart.  .  . 
Well,  I  now  ask  the  favour  of  reinstatement.  .  . 
As  long  as  your  exile  lasts,  give  me  the  functions 
I  had  at  Leybach  near  your  Majesties  ...  as  chief 
of  your  civil  and  military  household." 

"  See  his  ambition !  "  cried  the  king,  gayly. 
Then  he  added  in  a  tone  of  friendship :  "  But 
there  is  no  household,  my  poor  general,  neither 
civil  nor  military.  .  .  The  queen  has  her  chap- 
lain and  two  women  .  .  .  Zara,  his  governess  ...  I 
have  brought  Boscovich  to  do  my  correspondence, 
and  Lebeau  to  shave  my  chin.  .  .  That  is  all.  .  ." 

"  I  still  further  solicit,  Sire.  .  .  Will  your  Maj- 
esty be  so  kind  as  to  take  my  son  Herbert  as 
aide-de-camp,  and  give  the  princess,  my  daughter- 
in-law,  here  present,  as  reader  and  lady  of  honour 
to  the  queen?  .  ." 


1 6  Kings  in  Exile. 

"  Granted  on  my  part,  duke,"  said  the  queen, 
turning  her  beautiful  smile  upon  Colette,  quite 
dazzled  by  her  new  dignity. 

As  for  the  prince,  he  gave  by  way  of  thanks  to 
his  sovereign,  who  granted  the  brevet  of  aide-de- 
camp with  equal  courtesy,  a  graceful  neigh,  —  a 
habit  he  had  acquired  by  dint  of  frequenting 
Tattersall's. 

"  I  will  present  the  three  appointments  for  sig- 
nature to-morrow  morning,"  added  the  general, 
respectfully,  in  a  business  tone  which  indicated 
that  he  considered  himself  as  having  already 
entered  upon  his  functions. 

Hearing  that  tone,  that  formula,  which  had  so 
long  and  so  solemnly  pursued  him,  the  young 
king  let  an  expression  of  ennui  and  discourage- 
ment come  upon  his  face ;  then  he  consoled  him- 
self by  looking  at  the  princess,  whom  joy  had 
embellished  and  transfigured,  as  it  does  all  pretty 
faces  without  points,  the  charm  of  which  lies  in 
the  piquant  and  ever  changing  surface  of  their 
countenances.  Imagine  !  lady  of  honour  to  Queen 
Frederica,  she,  Colette  Sauvadon,  niece  of  Sauva- 
don  the  great  wine-merchant  of  Bercy !  What 
would  be  said  in  the  Rue  de  Varennes,  the  Rue 
Saint-Dominique,  in  those  exclusive  salons  to 
which  her  marriage  with  Herbert  de  Rosen  ad- 
mitted her  on  great  occasions,  but  never  intimately? 
Already  her  worldly  little  mind  was  travelling  in 
a  land  of  fancy.  She  thought  of  the  visiting- 
cards  she  would  order  printed,  the  renewal  of  her 
wardrobe,  a  gown  of  the  Illyrian  colours,  with 


The  First  Day.  17 

cockades  of  the  same  for  the  heads  of  her  horses. 
.  .  But  the  king's  voice,  speaking  near  her,  inter- 
rupted these  thoughts. 

"  This  is  our  first  meal  in  the  land  of  exile," 
he  was  saying  to  the  general  in  a  tone  half-serious 
and  designedly  emphatic.  "  I  wish  the  table  to  be 
gay  and  surrounded  by  our  friends." 

Then,  noticing  the  alarmed  air  of  the  general 
at  this  brusque  invitation,  he  added :  — 

"  Ah !  yes,  very  true,  etiquette,  propriety.  .  . 
Bah !  we  have  lost  the  habit  of  all  that  since  the 
siege ;  the  chief  of  our  household  will  find  many 
reforms  to  make.  .  .  But  I  request  that  he  will 
not  begin  them  until  to-morrow." 

At  this  moment  the  mafare  d*  hotel,  throwing 
open  both  sides  of  the  double  door,  announced 
the  dinner  of  their  Majesties.  The  princess  drew 
herself  up,  all  glorious,  to  take  the  arm  of  the 
king ;  but  he  offered  it  to  the  queen,  and,  without 
further  notice  of  his  guests,  conducted  her  to  the 
dining-room.  All  the  ceremonial  of  a  Court  had 
not  been  abandoned,  whatever  he  might  say,  in 
the  casemates  of  Ragusa. 

The  transition  from  sun  to  artificial  light  struck 
every  one  on  entering.  In  spite  of  the  chandelier, 
the  candelabra,  and  two  large  lamps  on  the  side- 
boards, it  was  difficult  to  see  clearly;  as  if  the 
daylight,  brutally  excluded  before  its  time,  had 
left  on  all  things  the  haziness  of  twilight.  This 
melancholy  effect  was  increased  by  the  length 
and  disproportion  of  the  table  to  the  number  of 
guests,  a  table  conforming  in  shape  to  the  exigen- 


1 8  Kings  in  Exile. 

cies  of  etiquette,  for  which  a  search  had  been 
made  throughout  the  hotel,  and  where  the  king 
and  queen  now  took  their  seats  together  at  one  end, 
with  no  one  beside  them  and  no  one  opposite; 
an  arrangement  which  rilled  the  little  Princesse  de 
Rosen  with  surprise  and  admiration.  Invited 
once  during  the  last  days  of  the  Empire  to  dine 
at  the  Tuileries,  she  remembered  very  well  that 
the  emperor  and  empress  sat  opposite  to  each 
other,  like  any  bourgeois  couple  at  their  wedding 
feast.  "  Ah !  this "  thought  the  little  parvenue, 
closing  her  fan  with  a  resolute  gesture  and  laying 
it  beside  her  with  her  gloves,  "  this  is  legitimacy ! 
.  .  there  's  nothing  like  it." 

That  thought  transformed  to  her  eyes  this  dreary 
sort  of  depopulated  table-d'hote,  the  aspect  of 
which  recalled  the  splendid  inns  of  the  Italian 
Corniche  between  Monaco  and  Saint-Remo  at 
the  beginning  of  a  season,  when  the  rush  of  the 
tourists  has  not  yet  begun.  The  same  mix- 
ture of  people  and  costumes ;  Christian  in  a  sack 
coat,  the  queen  in  her  travelling-dress;  Herbert 
and  his  wife  in  boulevard  watteau  ;  while  the  Fran- 
ciscan habit  of  Pere  Alphe"e,  the  queen's  chaplain, 
rubbed  against  the  starred  semi-uniform  of  the 
old  general.  Nothing  less  imposing  could  be 
seen.  One  thing  alone  had  grandeur,  —  the  chap- 
lain's prayer,  asking  for  the  Divine  blessing  on 
this  first  meal  in  exile.  "  Qua  sumus  sumpturi 
prima  die  in  exilio "...  said  the  monk,  with  out- 
spread hands;  and  those  words  slowly  recited 
seemed  to  prolong  very  far  into  the  future  the 


The  First  Day.  19 

royal  holiday  of  King  Christian.  "  Amen  !  "  re- 
sponded in  a  grave  voice  the  deposed  sovereign, 
as  if  in  the  Church's  Latin  he  had  felt  for  the  first 
time  the  thousand  broken  links,  still  living,  still 
quivering,  which  the  banished  of  all  ages  drag 
after  them,  as  trees  uprooted  drag  their  living 
roots. 

But  the  strongest  impressions  never  held  long 
upon  the  polished,  caressing  nature  of  the  Slav. 
He  was  no  sooner  seated  than  he  recovered  his 
gayety,  his  disengaged  manner,  and  talked  a  great 
deal;  taking  pains,  out  of  regard  to  the  French 
lady  present,  to  speak  French,  very  purely,  and 
yet  with  a  slight  Italian  zezaiement,  which  went 
extremely  well  with  his  laugh.  In  a  tone  of  heroi- 
cal  comedy  he  related  certain  episodes  of  the 
siege,  —  the  installation  of  the  Court  into  the  case- 
mates, and  the  wonderful  figure  there  made  by 
the  Marquise  file'onore  de  Silvis  in  her  turban  with 
its  green  feather  and  her  plaid.  Fortunately,  that 
innocent  dame  was  dining  in  her  pupil's  apartment 
and  could  not  hear  the  laughter  produced  by  the 
king's  jokes.  Boscovich  and  his  herbarium  served 
him  next  as  a  target.  One  would  really  have 
thought  that  he  wanted  by  sheer  boyish  nonsense 
to  avenge  himself  for  the  gravity  of  circumstances. 
The  aulic  councillor  Boscovich,  a  little  man  of  no 
age,  timid  and  gentle,  with  rabbit-eyes  that  always 
looked  sideways,  was  a  learned  legal  authority, 
passionately  devoted  to  botany.  At  Ragusa,  the 
courts  of  law  being  all  closed,  he  spent  his  time 
in  herbalizing  under  the  bomb-shells  in  the  moats 


2O  Kings  in  Exile. 

of  the  fortifications,  —  wholly  unconscious  heroism 
of  a  mind  given  up  to  its  mania,  pre-occupied 
solely,  in  the  midst  of  this  total  upheaval  of  his 
country,  in  saving  a  magnificent  herbal  which  had 
fallen  into  the  hands  of  the  liberals. 

"  Think,  my  poor  Boscovich,"  said  Christian  to 
worry  him,  "  what  a  splendid  bonfire  they  must 
have  made  of  all  those  dried  leaves  .  .  .  unless  the 
Republic,  being  so  poor,  took  it  into  its  head  to 
cut  up  your  big  gray  dock-leaves  into  capes  for  its 
militia." 

The  councillor  laughed  like  the  rest,  but  with 
scared  eyes,  and  many  "  Ma  che  .  .  .  ma  che"  which 
betrayed  his  innocent  terrors. 

"  How  charming  the  king  is !  .  .  what  wit !  .  . 
and  what  eyes !  .  ."  thought  the  little  princess,  to 
whom  Christian  bent  continually,  endeavouring  to 
diminish  the  distance  that  ceremonial  placed  be- 
tween them. 

It  was  a  pleasure  to  see  her  blossoming  out 
under  the  evidently  admiring  gaze  of  those  august 
eyes,  playing  with  her  fan,  uttering  little  cries, 
throwing  back  her  supple  figure,  in  which  laughter 
was  palpitating  in  visible  waves.  The  queen,  by 
her  attitude  and  the  private  conversation  she  was 
holding  with  the  old  duke,  who  sat  next  to  her, 
seemed  to  isolate  herself  from  the  overflowing 
gayety.  Two  or  three  times,  when  the  siege  was 
talked  of,  she  said  a  few  words,  and  each  time  to 
set  forth  the  king's  bravery  and  his  strategic  knowl- 
edge, after  which  she  resumed  her  aside.  In  a  low 
voice  the  general  inquired  about  the  Court  people, 


The  First  Day.  21 

his  old  companions  who,  more  fortunate  than 
himself,  had  followed  their  princes  to  Ragusa. 
Many  remained  there,  and  to  each  name  men- 
tioned by  Rosen,  the  queen  was  heard  to  answer 
in  her  grave  voice :  "  Dead  !  .  .  dead  !  .  ."  a  funeral 
note,  sounding  the  knell  of  her  recent  losses. 
Nevertheless,  after  dinner,  when  they  returned  to 
the  salon,  Frederica  seemed  gayer;  she  made 
Colette  de  Rosen  sit  beside  her  on  a  sofa,  and 
talked  to  her  with  that  affectionate  familiarity 
which  she  used  to  attract  sympathy,  and  which 
resembled  the  pressure  of  her  beautiful  out- 
stretched hand,  delicate  in  the  fingers  but  strong 
in  the  palm,  communicating  to  others  its  benefi- 
cent energy.  Suddenly  she  said  :  — 

"  Let  us  go  and  see  Zara  put  to  bed,  princess." 

At  the  end  of  a  long  corridor,  encumbered,  like 
the  rest  of  the  apartment,  with  piled-up  cases,  open 
trunks  from  which  linen  and  clothing  were  pro- 
truding in  the  hurry  and  confusion  of  arrival,  was 
the  room  of  the  little  prince,  lighted  by  a  lamp 
with  its  shade  covered  so  that  the  light  fell  below 
the  level  of  the  bluish  curtains  of  the  bed. 

A  servant-woman  was  sitting  asleep  on  a  trunk, 
her  head  enveloped  in  her  white  coif  and  the  large 
handkerchief  edged  with  pink  which  completes  the 
head-dress  of  the  Dalmatian  women. 

Near  the  table  sat  the  governess,  leaning  lightly 
on  her  elbow,  an  open  book  on  her  knees ;  she,  too, 
had  succumbed  to  a  soporific  influence,  retaining 
in  her  sleep  the  same  romantic  and  sentimental 
air  the  king  had  been  ridiculing.  The  queen's 


22  Kings  in  Exile. 

entrance  did  not  wake  her ;  but  the  little  prince, 
at  the  first  motion  of  the  mosquito  net  that  veiled 
his  cot,  stretched  out  his  little  fists  and  made  an 
effort  to  rise,  his  eyes  wide  open,  his  glance  wan- 
dering. For  months  he  was  so  accustomed  to  be 
waked  at  night,  hurriedly  dressed  for  flight  or  de- 
parture, and  to  see  about  him  in  the  morning  new 
persons  and  new  places,  that  his  sleep  had  lost  its 
even  tenour ;  it  was  no  longer  that  good  ten  hours' 
journey  in  the  land  of  dreams  which  children  make 
to  the  regular,  continuous,  almost  imperceptible 
breathing  of  their  little  half-opened  mouths. 

"Is  that  you,  mamma?"  he  said  in  a  whisper. 
"Must  we  run  away  again?" 

In  that  resigned  and  touching  exclamation  one 
felt  how  the  child  had  suffered,  suffered  from  an 
evil  too  great  for  him. 

"  No,  no,  my  darling;  we  are  safe  this  time.  .  . 
Go  to  sleep,  you  must  sleep." 

"  Oh !  then  it  is  all  right,  and  I  can  go  back  to 
giant  Robistor  on  the  glass  mountain  ...  I  liked  it 
so." 

"  Those  are  Mme.  fil6onore's  fairy  tales ;  they 
disturb  his  ideas,"  said  the  queen  softly.  "  Poor 
little  fellow !  life  is  so  dark  for  him.  .  .  He  has 
nothing  to  amuse  him  but  stories.  .  .  However, 
we  must  soon  determine  to  put  something  better 
into  his  head." 

As  she  spoke,  she  was  re-arranging  the  child's 
pillow,  settling  him  to  sleep  with  caressing  motions 
like  a  simple  bourgeoise,  which  completely  upset 
the  grandiose  notions  of  Colette  de  Rosen  as  to 


The  First  Day.  23 

royalty.  Then,  as  she  leaned  over  her  child  to 
kiss  him,  he  asked  in  her  ear  if  it  was  the  cannon 
or  the  sea  he  heard  growling  in  the  distance.  She 
listened  a  second  to  the  confused,  continuous  roll 
which,  at  moments,  seemed  almost  to  crack  the 
panes  and  make  the  partitions  tremble,  shaking 
the  house  from  top  to  bottom,  lessening  only  to 
grow  louder,  increasing  suddenly  and  fleeing  again 
into  soundless  space. 

"  That  is  nothing.  .  .  That  is  Paris,  my  son. 
Go  to  sleep." 

And  the  child  fallen  from  a  throne,  who  had 
been  told  of  Paris  as  a  refuge,  fell  asleep  in  con- 
fidence, rocked  by  the  noises  of  the  city  of 
revolutions. 

When  the  queen  and  the  princess  returned  to  the 
salon,  they  found  there  a  young  woman  of  grand 
air  and  dignity  who  was  standing  up  and  talking 
with  the  king.  The  familiar  tone  of  the  conversa- 
tion, the  respectful  distance  at  which  all  present 
held  themselves,  showed  plainly  that  this  was  a 
personage  of  importance.  The  queen  gave  an 
agitated  cry. 

"Maria!" 

"  Frederica !  " 

And  the  same  rush  of  tenderness  in  both  threw 
them  into  each  other's  arms.  On  a  questioning 
look  from  his  wife,  Herbert  de  Rosen  named  the 
visitor.  It  was  the  Queen  of  Palermo.  Rather 
taller  and  thinner  than  her  cousin  of  Illyria,  she 
seemed  to  be  several  years  older.  Her  black 
eyes  and  her  black  hair  raised  smoothly  from  her 


24  Kings  in  Exile. 

forehead,  together  with  her  pure  white  skin,  gave 
her  the  look  of  an  Italian,  although  she  was  born 
at  the  Court  of  Bavaria.  There  was  nothing  Ger- 
man about  her  except  the  stiffness  of  her  long, 
flat  waist,  the  haughty  expression  of  her  smile, 
and  a  certain  dowdiness,  a  something  of  discord 
in  her  apparel  which  distinguishes  the  women  of 
the  other  side  of  the  Rhine.  Frederica,  left  an 
orphan  very  young,  was  brought  up  in  Munich 
with  this  cousin ;  though  separated  by  life,  they 
had  always  retained  a  most  lively  affection  for 
each  other. 

"  You  see,  I  could  not  wait,"  said  the  Queen  of 
Palermo,  holding  Frederica's  hand.  "  Cecco  was 
not  in  ...  I  have  come  without  him  ...  I  longed 
so !  .  .  I  have  thought  of  you  so  often,  of  both  of 
you.  .  .  Oh !  that  cannon  of  Ragusa,  I  fancied  I 
heard  it  ...  at  night  .  .  .  from  Vincennes  .  .  ." 

"  It  was  only  the  echo  of  that  of  Cajeta,"  in- 
terrupted Christian,  making  allusion  to  the  heroic 
attitude  maintained  a  few  years  earlier  by  that 
queen,  dethroned  and  exiled  like  themselves. 

She  sighed. 

"  Ah  !  yes,  Cajeta.  .  .  We,  too,  were  left  alone, 
deserted.  .  .  What  a  pity  !  As  if  all  crowns  ought 
not  to  maintain  each  other.  .  .  But  now  it  is 
finished.  The  world  is  mad." 

Then,  turning  to  Christian :  — 

"  All  the  same,  cousin,  I  congratulate  you  .  .  . 
you  fell  as  a  king." 

"  Oh  !  "  he  said,  motioning  to  Frederica,  "  there 
is  the  true  king  of  us  two." 


The  First  Day.  25 

A  gesture  from  his  wife  closed  his  lips.  .  .  He 
bowed,  smiling,  and  turned  on  his  heel. 

"  Come  and  smoke,  Herbert,"  he  said  to  his 
aide-de-camp.  And  together  they  went  out  upon 
the  balcony. 

The  night  was  warm  and  splendid.  Day,  scarcely 
extinquished  by  the  dazzle  of  the  gas,  was  dying 
in  blue  gleams.  The  dark  mass  of  the  horse- 
chestnuts  of  the  Tuileries  fanned  a  gentle  breeze, 
and  the  heavens  above  were  brightening  with  the 
light  of  the  stars.  By  means  of  this  background  of 
coolness,  this  space  beyond  the  noises  of  the  crowd, 
the  Rue  de  Rivoli  escaped  the  stifled  aspect  of 
the  other  streets  of  Paris  in  mid-summer ;  one  felt, 
moreover,  the  vast  current  of  the  town  toward  the 
Champs  Elysees  and  its  open-air  concerts  beneath 
their  flaming  glass  globes.  The  gayety  that  winter 
incloses  behind  warm  curtains  now  sang  freely, 
laughed,  ran  riot  in  flowery  hats,  floating  man- 
tillas, and  cotton  gowns,  the  outline  of  which 
round  white  young  necks  tied  with  black  ribbon 
could  be  seen  as  they  passed  the  street  lamps. 
The  caf6s  and  the  ice-cream  places  overflowed 
upon  the  sidewalk,  with  rattle  of  money,  calls  to 
the  waiters,  and  the  ringing  of  glasses. 

"  This  Paris  is  unspeakable,"  said  Christian  of 
Illyria,  blowing  his  smoke  before  him  into  the 
darkness.  "The  air  is  not  the  same  as  it  is  else- 
where .  .  .  there  is  something  in  it  that  goes  to 
the  head  .  .  .  When  I  think  that  at  Leybach  at 
this  hour  all  is  locked  up,  gone  to  bed,  extin- 
guished !  .  .  "  Then  he  added  in  a  gayer  tone : 


26  Kings  in  Exile. 

"Ah,  £a!  my  aide-de-camp,  I  hope  to  be  ini- 
tiated into  Parisian  pleasures.  .  .  You  seem  to  me 
to  be  up  to  them  .  .  .  well  launched,  in  fact." 

"  As  to  that,  yes,  Monseigneur,"  said  Herbert, 
neighing  with  gratified  pride.  .  .  "At  the  club, 
the  opera,  everywhere,  they  call  me  le  roi  de  la 
Gomme" 1 

While  Christian  was  having  the  meaning  of  that 
new  word  explained  to  him,  the  two  queens,  who, 
in  order  to  speak  more  freely,  had  withdrawn  to 
Frederica's  bedroom,  were  opening  their  hearts 
in  long  tales  and  sad  confidences,  of  which  the 
low  -v  murmur  only  could  be  heard  beyond  the 
blinds.  In  the  salon,  Pere  Alph6e  and  the  old 
duke  were  talking  together  in  low  tones. 

"  He  was  right,"  said  the  chaplain,  "  it  is  she 
who  is  king,  the  true  king.  .  .  If  you  had  seen 
her  on  horseback,  riding  night  after  night  to 
the  outposts  !  .  .  At  Fort  Saint-Angelo,  where  it 
rained  fire,  she  walked  twice  round  the  talus,  whip 
in  hand,  her  habit  over  her  arm  as  if  in  her  own 
park,  to  give  heart  to  the  soldiers.  .  .  You  ought 
to  have  seen  our  sailors  when  she  came  down.  .  . 
He,  all  this  time,  running  about  God  knows  where  ! 
T$r3,ve,parbleu  !  yes,  as  brave  as  she.  .  .  but  no  star, 
no  faith.  .  .  And  to  save  your  crown  as  well  as  to 
win  heaven,  Monsieur  le  due,  you  must  have  faith." 

The  monk  grew  excited,  standing  up  in  his  long 
robe  and  Rosen  was  obliged  to  calm  him. 

"  Gently,    Pere  Alph^e.  .  .     Come,  come,  Pere 

1  Slang  expression  for  ultra  fashion.  Gommeux :  effeminate 
young  dandy. —  TR. 


The  First  Day.  27 

Alphe'e  .  .  ."     He   was   afraid  that  Colette  would 
overhear  him. 

The  latter  was  abandoned  to  Councillor  Bos- 
covich,  who  discoursed  to  her  of  his  plants,,  min- 
gling scientific  terms  with  the  most  minute  details 
of  his  botanizing  excursions.  His  conversation 
fairly  smelt  of  dried  herbs  and  the  dust  of  an  old 
library.  However,  there  is  in  grandeur  so  power- 
ful an  attraction,  the  atmosphere  it  sheds  does  so 
strongly  and  deliciously  intoxicate  certain  little 
natures  eager  to  imbibe  it,  that  the  young  prin- 
cess, that  Princesse  Colette  of  the  balls  of  high-life, 
of  races  and  first  representations,  always  in  the 
advance-guard  of  the  Paris  of  amusement,  kept  her 
prettiest  smile  while  listening  to  the  dreary  no- 
menclatures of  the  innocent  botanist.  It  sufficed 
her  to  know  that  a  king  was  talking  at  that  window, 
and  that  two  queens  were  exchanging  confidences 
in  the  adjoining  chamber.  That  knowledge  was 
enough  to  fill  the  commonplace  salon,  where  her 
own  elegance  was  quite  out  of  place,  with  the  gran- 
deur, the  sad  majesty  which  make  the  vast  rooms 
of  Versailles,  with  their  waxed  floors  shining  like 
their  mirrors,  so  melancholy.  She  would  willingly 
have  stayed  there  in  ecstasy  till  midnight,  without 
stirring  and  without  being  bored,  only  wondering 
a  little  at  the  long  conversation  that  the  king 
kept  up  with  her  husband.  What  grave  questions 
could  they  be  discussing?  What  vast  projects  of 
monarchical  restoration?  Her  curiosity  redoubled 
when  they  both  reappeared  with  animated  faces 
and  decided,  eager  eyes. 


28  Kings  in  Exile. 

"  I  am  going  out  with  the  king,"  Herbert  said 
to  her  in  a  low  voice.  "  My  father  will  take  you 
home." 

The  king  came  up  to  her. 

"  You  must  not  be  vexed  with  me,  princess.  .  . 
His  service  begins  from  this  moment." 

"  All  the  moments  of  our  life  belong  to  your 
Majesties,"  replied  the  young  wife,  convinced  that 
some  important  and  mysterious  step  was  about  to 
be  taken  .  .  .  perhaps  a  first  meeting  of  conspira- 
tors. Oh  !  why  could  she  not  be  present  herself? 

Christian  had  gone  to  his  wife's  room,  but  at  the 
door  he  paused. 

"  They  are  weeping,"  he  said  to  Herbert;  then, 
turning  back :  "  Good-night,  I  will  not  come  in." 

In  the  street  he  gave  way  to  an  explosion  of  joy, 
of  comfort,  as  he  passed  his  arm  through  that  of 
his  aide-de-camp,  after  lighting  a  fresh  cigar  in  the 
hotel  vestibule. 

"  It  is  so  good,  don't  you  see,  to  get  off  alone, 
into  a  crowd,  to  walk  in  the  ranks  like  the  rest,  to 
be  master  of  one's  speech,  one's  gestures,  and 
when  a  pretty  girl  goes  by  to  be  able  to  turn  and 
look  at  her  without  all  Europe  being  shaken.  .  . 
That 's  the  blessing  of  exile.  .  .  When  I  was  here 
eight  years  ago,  I  saw  Paris  only  through  the 
windows  of  the  Tuileries,  or  from  the  tops  of  those 
gala  coaches.  .  .  This  time  I  mean  to  know  every- 
thing, go  everywhere.  .  .  Sapristi !  now  I  think 
of  it,  I  'm  making  you  walk,  walk,  and  you  limp, 
my  poor  Herbert.  .  .  Stop,  we  will  take  a  cab." 

The  prince  began  to  protest;  his  leg  did  not 


The  First  Day.  29 

hurt  him;  he  felt  quite  strong  enough  to  walk 
there.  But  Christian  was  firm. 

"  No,  no,  my  guide  shall  not  be  foundered  on 
the  first  day." 

So  saying,  he  hailed  a  roaming  cab,  which  was 
making  for  the  Place  de  la  Concorde  with  a  clatter 
of  worn-out  springs  and  snappings  of  the  whip  on 
the  bony  back  of  its  horse,  jumped  lightly  into  it, 
and  settled  himself,  rubbing  his  hands  with  childish 
joy,  on  the  old  blue  cloth  of  the  cushions. 

"Where  to,  my  prince?"  asked  the  coachman 
little  suspecting  that  he  spoke  true. 

And  the  king  answered,  with  the  triumphant  joy 
of  an  emancipated  school-boy :  — 

"  To  Mabille  !  " 


30  Kings  in  Exile. 


II. 

A   ROYALIST. 

WITH  bare,  shaven  heads  beneath  a  prickly  fine 
December  rain  which  frosted  like  lace  their  brown 
woollen  gowns,  two  monks,  wearing  the  girdle  and 
the  cowl  of  the  order  of  Saint-Francis,  were  strid- 
ing down  the  incline  of  the  Rue  Monsieur-le- 
Prince.  Amid  all  the  transformations  of  the  Latin 
quarter,  and  those  great  gaps  through  which  are 
lost  in  the  dust  of  "  demolition  "  the  originality 
and  the  very  memories  of  old  Paris,  the  Rue  Mon- 
sieur-le-Prince  still  keeps  its  ancient  physiognomy 
as  a  student's  street.  The  book-stalls,  the  cream- 
eries, the  cook-shops,  the  old-clothes  dealers,  "  pur- 
chase and  sale  in  gold  and  silver,"  alternate  with 
one  another  as  far  along  as  the  hill  of  Sainte- 
Genevieve,  and  students  tramp  it  at  all  hours  of 
the  day;  no  longer  Gavarni's  students,  with  long 
hair  flying  from  their  woollen  caps,  but  future  law- 
yers, buttoned  from  head  to  foot  in  their  ulsters, 
brushed  and  gloved,  with  enormous  morocco  cases 
under  their  arms,  and  the  cold,  cunning  air  of  the 
business  agent  already  upon  them ;  or  else  these 
students  are  future  doctors,  a  little  freer  in  gait 
and  behaviour,  still  keeping  a  material  human  side 
in  their  studies,  an  expansiveness  of  physical  life, 


A  Royalist.  31 

as  if  to  counterbalance  their  close  intercourse  with 
death. 

At  this  early  hour  girls  in  dressing-gowns  and 
slippers,  their  eyes  bloated  with  vigils  and  hair 
hanging  loose  in  swaying  nets,  were  running 
through  the  streets  to  the  creameries  for  their 
breakfast  milk,  —  some  laughing  and  skipping, 
others,  on  the  contrary,  very  dignified,  swinging 
their  tin-boxes  and  trailing  their  faded  finery  and 
their  slippers  with  the  majestic  indifference  of 
queens  of  love;  and  as,  in  spite  of  ulsters  and 
morocco  bags,  hearts  of  twenty  are  all  of  one  age, 
the  students  smiled  at  these  beauties,  and  greeted 
them  with  a  "  Tiens,  Lea "  —  "  Good-morning 
Clemence."  They  called  to,  one  another  across 
the  street ;  appointments  were  being  made  for  the 
evening :  "  At  the  Medical  "  —  "  At  Louis  XIII.," 
when  suddenly,  on  too  lively  a  remark,  or  a  madri- 
gal taken  amiss,  one  of  the  startling  indignations 
of  such  girls  burst  forth  in  the  invariable  formula, 
"  Go  your  way,  insolence  !  "  We  can  fancy  how 
the  two  monks  must  have  bristled  in  contact  with 
all  this  youth,  laughing  and  turning  to  look  at 
them  as  they  passed.  But  laughing  low,  for  one 
of  these  Franciscans,  thin,  brown,  and  dry  as  a 
carob-bean,  had  a  terrible,  piratical  countenance 
under  his  bushy  eyebrows,  and  his  gown,  which 
the  girdle  held  together  in  heavy  plaits,  defined 
the  muscles  and  the  loins  of  an  athlete.  Neither 
he  nor  his  companion  seemed  to  pay  the  least 
attention  to  the  street,  the  atmosphere  of  which 
they  were  shaking  off  in  great  strides,  with  fixed, 


32  Kings  in  Exile. 

absorbed  eyes,  solely  bent  upon  the  end  they  had 
in  view.  Before  they  reached  the  broad  flight  of 
steps  which  leads  to  the  ficole  de  Medecine  the 
elder  of  the  two  signed  to  the  other :  — 

"This  is  it." 

"  It "  was  a  furnished  lodging-house  of  shabby 
appearance,  the  alley  to  which,  closed  by  a  green 
gate  with  a  bell,  opened  between  a  newspaper 
booth  crowded  with  pamphlets,  songs  for  a  sou, 
and  coloured  prints  in  which  the  grotesque  hat 
of  Basile  appeared  in  a  hundred  attitudes,  and 
a  cellar  brewery,  bearing  on  its  sign  the  words 
"  Brewery  of  the  Rialto,"  doubtless  because  it  was 
served  by  young  ladies  in  Venetian  head-dresses. 

"Has  M.  Elysee  gone  out?"  asked  one  of  the 
Fathers  as  they  passed  the  porter's  lodge  of  the 
house  on  the  ground-floor. 

A  stout  woman,  who  must  have  rolled  through 
many  a  lodging-house  before  keeping  one  of  her 
own,  answered  lazily  from  her  chair  and  without 
even  looking  at  the  line  of  keys  hanging  sadly  on 
their  hooks :  — 

"  Out !  at  this  hour !  .  .  You  had  better  ask  if 
he  has  come  in." 

Then  a  glance  at  the  brown  gowns  made  her 
change  her  tone,  and  she  told  in  some  anxiety 
where  to  find  the  room  of  FJys£e  Meraut. 

"  No.  36,  fifth  floor,  at  the  end  of  the  passage." 

The  Franciscans  went  up,  making  their  way 
through  narrow  corridors  encumbered  with  muddy 
boots,  and  other  boots  with  high  heels,  gray, 
bronzed,  fantastic,  luxurious,  or  wretched,  which 


A  Royalist.  33 

told  long  tales  on  the  manners  and  morals  of  the 
"  inhabitants  "  ;  but  they  paid  no  attention,  sweep- 
ing the  boots  along  the  passage  with  their  coarse 
skirts  and  the  cross  of  their  great  chaplets ;  they 
were  scarcely  moved  when  a  handsome  girl  dressed 
in  a  red  petticoat,  throat  and  arms  bare  under 
a  man's  overcoat,  leaned  over  the  railing  on  the 
third  floor  to  shout  something  down  to  a  waiter, 
with  the  rasping  voice  and  laugh  of  a  singularly 
degraded  mouth.  They  did,  however,  exchange 
a  significant  glance. 

"  If  he  is  the  man  you  say  he  is,"  murmured  the 
corsair,  in  a  foreign  accent,  "  he  has  chosen  to  put 
himself  in  singular  surroundings." 

The  other,  the  elder,  with  a  shrewd,  intelligent 
face,  gave  an  unctuous  smile  of  shrewdness  and 
sacerdotal  indulgence.  "  Saint  Paul  among  the 
Gentiles,"  he  said. 

When  they  reached  the  fifth  floor  the  monks 
were  somewhat  puzzled ;  the  vault  of  the  staircase, 
now  very  low  and  very  dark,  scarcely  allowed  them 
to  read  the  numbers  or  the  cards  on  some  of  the 
doors,  inscribed,  for  instance,  "  Mile.  Alice,"  with- 
out indication  of  her  calling,  indication  very  use- 
less for  that  matter,  for  there  were  many  other 
competitors  of  the  same  trade  in  the  house,  and 
one  of  those  worthy  Fathers  was  knocking  incon- 
tinently at  the  door  of  one  of  them. 

"  We  must  call  out  to  him,  parbleu  !  "  said  the 
monk  with  the  black  eyebrows,  who  now  made  the 
whole  house  resound  with  a  "  Monsieur  Me>aut !  " 
in  military  tones. 


34  Kings  in  Exile. 

Not  less  vigorous,  nor  less  ringing  came  back 
the  answer  from  a  chamber  at  the  end  of  the 
passage.  And  when  they  opened  the  door  the 
same  voice  called  out  joyously :  — 

"  So  it  is  you,  Pere  Melchior.  .  .  That 's  my 
luck !  .  .  I  thought  they  were  bringing  me  a  letter 
full  of ...  Come  in,  come  in,  my  Reverends,  you 
are  welcome  ...  sit  down  where  you  can." 

On  every  article  of  furniture  were  masses  of 
books,  papers,  reviews,  clothing,  concealing  the 
sordid  fittings  of  a  furnished  lodging  of  the  eight- 
eenth class,  its  unpolished  tiled  floor,  its  collapsed 
sofa,  the  eternal  Empire  secretary  and  the  three 
chairs  covered  in  defunct  velvet.  On  the  bed, 
papers  from  a  printing  office  were  jumbled  with 
clothing,  a  thin  brown  coverlet,  and  bundles  of 
proofs  which  the  master  of  the  place,  still  in 
bed,  was  sabring  with  great  dashes  of  a  coloured 
pencil.  This  miserable  den  of  work,  with  its  fire- 
place without  fire,  its  walls  in  their  dusty  nudity, 
was  lighted  by  gleams  from  the  neighbouring 
roofs,  the  reflections  of  a  rainy  sky  on  the  wet 
slates ;  and  in  the  same  uncertain  light,  the  great 
brow  of  M6raut,  his  passionate,  powerful  face 
shone  with  the  intelligent,  sad  lustre  which  dis- 
tinguishes certain  faces  that  we  meet  in  Paris  and 
nowhere  else. 

"  Still  in  my  lair,  you  see,  Pere  Melchior !  .  . 
But  what  of  it?  I  came  here  on  my  arrival  in 
Paris  eighteen  years  ago.  Since  then,  I  have 
never  stirred  out  of  it.  .  .  So  many  dreams,  hopes 
buried  in  all  its  corners  .  .  ideas  that  I  find  be- 


A  Royalist.  35 

neath  the  cobwebs.  .  .  I  am  sure  that  if  I  quitted 
this  poor  chamber  I  should  leave  the  best  part 
of  myself  in  it.  .  .  That  is  so  true  that  I  kept  it 
when  I  started  for  over  there." 

"  Just  so,  that  journey  of  yours,"  said  Pere  Mel- 
chior,  with  a  little  wink  of  his  eye  to  his  com- 
panion. .  .  "I  thought  you  had  gone  for  a  long 
time.  .  .  What  happened?  Didn't  the  employ- 
ment suit  you  ?  " 

"  Oh !  if  you  talk  of  the  employment,"  said  Me- 
raut,  shaking  his  mane,  "  nothing  could  be  finer.  .  . 
Salary  of  a  minister  plenipotentiary,  lodged  in  the 
palace,  horses,  carriages,  servants.  .  .  Everybody 
charming  to  me,  emperor,  empress,  archdukes.  .  . 
But  in  spite  of  all  that,  I  was  bored.  I  missed 
Paris ;  specially  the  Quarter,  the  air  one  breathes 
here,  light,  vibrant,  young;  the  galleries  of  the 
Odeon,  the  new  book  turned  over  standing  with 
two  fingers,  the  quest  of  the  bookstalls,  those  stalls 
that  line  the  quays  like  a  rampart  sheltering  studi- 
ous Paris  from  the  futility  and  egoism  of  the  other 
part.  .  .  And  then,  for  that  's  not  all  — "  here 
his  voice  became  more  serious —  "You  know 
my  ideas,  Pere  Melchior.  You  know  what  I  was 
ambitious  of  doing  by  accepting  that  subaltern 
place.  .  .  I  wanted  to  make  a  king  of  that  little 
young  man,  a  king  really  a  king,  which  is  not  seen 
nowadays ;  to  bring  him  up,  knead  him,  mould 
him  for  the  grand  role  which  surpasses  and  crushes 
all  others  —  like  that  armour  of  the  middle  ages 
which  remains  in  the  museums  to  shame  our 
shrunken  chests  and  shoulders.  .  Ah !  bah !  .  . 


36  Kings  in  Exile. 

liberals,  my  dear  man,  reformers,  men  of  progress 
and  new  ideas  —  that 's  what  I  found  at  the  Court 
of  X.  .  .  Dreadful  bourgeois,  who  could  not  com- 
prehend that  if  monarchy  is  condemned  it  had 
better  die  fighting,  wrapped  in  its  flag,  than  finish 
in  a  perambulator  pushed  by  a  Parliament.  .  . 
After  my  first  lesson  the  palace  was  in  a  clamour. 
'Where  does  he  come  from?  What  does  he  want 
of  us,  that  barbarian  ? '  And  they  asked  me  with 
all  sorts  of  pretty  speeches  to  confine  myself  to 
simple  matters  of  pedagogy.  .  .  A  pawn,  I ! 
When  I  saw  that,  I  took  my  hat,  and  good-night 
Majesties !  " 

He  spoke  in  a  strong,  full  voice,  the  Southern 
accent  of  which  struck  all  the  metallic  chords ;  and 
as  he  did  so  his  countenance  was  transfigured. 
The  head,  in  repose  enormous  and  ugly,  with  a 
prominent  projecting  brow,  above  which  was 
twisted  in  disorder  invincible  a  tangle  of  black 
hair  with  an  aigret  of  one  white  lock,  a  thick  and 
broken  nose,  a  violent  mouth  without  a  bristle  of 
beard  to  hide  it,  for  his  skin  had  the  heat,  the 
fissures,  the  sterility  of  volcanic  soil,  —  that  head 
nevertheless  became  marvellously  animated  by 
passion.  Imagine  the  tearing  away  of  a  veil,  the 
black  curtain  of  a  hearth  raised  to  show  a  joyous 
and  warmth-giving  flame ;  the  visible  display  of  an 
eloquence  attached  to  the  very  corners  of  the  eyes, 
the  nose,  the  lips,  and  spreading,  with  blood  from 
the  heart,  over  the  whole  of  that  worn  face,  hag- 
gard with  vigils  and  all  excesses.  The  landscapes 
of  Languedoc,  MeVaut's  native  land,  bare,  sterile, 


A  Royalist.  37 

gray  with  dusty  olive-trees,  have,  under  the  irised 
settings  of  their  implacable  sun,  just  such  splendid 
upflamings,  slashed  with  weird  shadows  that  seem, 
as  it  were,  the  decomposition  of  a  ray,  the  slow 
and  graduated  death  of  a  rainbow. 

"  So,  then,  you  were  disgusted  with  grandeur?  " 
said  the  old  monk,  whose  insinuating  voice,  with- 
out resonance,  formed  a  great  contrast  to  that 
burst  of  eloquence. 

"  Of  course  !  .  .  "  replied  the  other,  energetically. 

"  Nevertheless,  all  kings  are  not  alike.  .  .  I  know 
some  to  whom  your  ideas  ..." 

"  No,  no,  Pere  Melchior  .  .  .  that 's  over.  I  will 
not  make  that  attempt  a  second  time.  .  .  If  I  see 
sovereigns  too  near  I  am  afraid  I  shall  lose  my 
loyalty." 

After  a  silence  the  sly  priest  made  a  circuit  and 
brought  in  his  thought  by  another  door. 

"  This  six  months'  absence  must  have  injured 
your  interests,  Meraut." 

"  Why  no,  not  much.  .  .  In  the  first  place, 
uncle  Sauvadon  remained  faithful  to  me  .  .  .  you 
know  Sauvadon,  my  rich  man  from  Bercy.  .  .  He 
meets  a  great  deal  of  company  at  the  house  of  his 
niece,  Princesse  de  Rosen,  and  as  he  wants  to  join 
in  all  the  conversations,  he  comes  to  me  to  give 
him  three  times  a  week  what  he  calls  '  ideas  of 
things.'  He  is  charmingly  na'fve  and  confiding, 
the  worthy  man.  '  Monsieur  Me*raut,  what  must  I 
think  about  that  book?'  'Execrable.'  'But  it 
seems  to  me  ...  I  heard  the  other  day,  at  the 
princess's  .  .  . '  'If  you  have  an  opinion  of  your 


38  Kings  in  Exile. 

own,  my  presence  here  is  useless/  'Why,  no,  no, 
my  dear  friend,  you  know  I  have  n't  any,  no 
opinion  at  all '  ...  The  fact  is  he  has  absolutely 
none  and  takes  with  his  eyes  shut  all  I  give 
him  ...  I  am  his  thinking  matter.  .  .  During  my 
absence  he  never  spoke,  for  want  of  ideas.  .  . 
When  I  returned,  he  flung  himself  upon  me  —  you 
ought  to  have  seen  it !  Besides  him,  I  have  two 
Wallachians,  to  whom  I  am  giving  lessons  on  the 
law  of  nations  .  .  .  and  always  some  stroke  or  other 
on  hand ;  for  instance,  I  am  just  finishing  a 
'  Memorial  of  the  Siege  of  Ragusa '  from  authen- 
tic documents.  .  .  There  is  not  much  of  my  own 
in  it  ...  except  the  last  chapter,  which  I  am  rather 
pleased  with.  .  .  I  have  the  proofs  here.  Shall  I 
read  them  to  you  ?  I  have  headed  it :  '  Europe 
without  Kings.'  " 

While  he  read  his  royalist  brief,  exciting  himself 
to  tears,  the  lodging-house  woke  up,  scattering  all 
about  it  the  laughter  of  youth,  the  gayety  of  secret 
meetings  with  a  rattle  of  plates  and  glasses,  and 
the  cracked  notes  sounding  on  wood  of  an  old 
piano  playing  a  dancing-hall  tune.  Astonishing 
contrast,  of  which  the  Franciscans  took  little  note, 
completely  absorbed  as  they  were  in  the  joy  of 
listening  to  that  powerful  and  violent  defence  of 
royalty ;  the  taller  of  the  two,  especially,  quivering, 
stamping,  restraining  his  exclamations  of  enthu- 
siasm with  a  vehement  gesture  that  strained  his 
arms  upon  his  breast  till  he  seemed  to  crack  it. 
The  reading  over,  he  sprang  up,  and  strode  about 
the  room,  with  a  flux  of  words  and  gestures. 


A  Royalist.  39 

"  Yes  !  that 's  it  ...  that  is  truth  .  .  .  right  di- 
vine, legitimate,  absolute.  .  .  No  more  Parliaments, 
no  more  lawyers.  .  .  Burn  the  whole  gang !  " 

And  his  eyes  sparkled  and  flamed  like  the  fag- 
gots of  the  Sainte-Hermandad.  Pere  Melchior, 
more  calm,  congratulated  Meraut  on  his  book. 

"  I  hope  you  will  put  your  name  to  it,  this  one." 

"  No  more  than  to  the  others.  .  .  You  know 
very  well,  Pere  Melchior,  that  I  have  no  ambition, 
except  for  my  ideas.  .  .  The  book  will  pay  me ; 
it  was  Uncle  Sauvadon  who  procured  me  that 
windfall  —  but  I  would  have  written  it  for  nothing, 
for  the  love  of  it.  It  is  so  fine  to  note  the  annals 
of  that  royalty  in  the  death-throes,  to  listen  to 
the  failing  breath  of  the  old  world  fighting  and 
dying  in  these  exhausted  monarchies.  .  .  Here, 
at  least,  is  a  fallen  king  who  has  given  a  grand 
lesson  to  the  rest  of  them.  .  .  A  hero,  that 
Christian.  .  .  It  says  in  these  notes  that  day  after 
day  he  rode  under  fire  to  Fort  Saint-Angelo.  .  . 
Ha !  't  was  bold,  that  was !  .  ." 

One  of  the  Fathers  lowered  his  head.  Better 
than  any  one  he  knew  what  to  believe  of  that 
heroic  manifestation,  and  of  that  lie,  more  heroic 
still.  .  .  But  a  will  above  his  own  compelled  his 
silence.  He  contented  himself  with  making  a  sign 
to  his  companion,  who  rose,  and  said  abruptly 
to  Meraut :  — 

"  Well,  it  is  for  the  son  of  that  hero  that  I  have 
come  to  see  you  .  .  .  with  Pere  Alph6e,  almoner 
to  the  Court  of  Illyria.  .  .  Will  you  undertake 
the  education  of  the  royal  child?" 


4-O  Kings  in  Exile. 

"  With  us  you  will  have  neither  palace  nor 
carriages,"  said  Pere  Alph£e,  sadly,  "  nor  the  im- 
perial generosities  of  the  Court  of  X.  .  .  You  will 
serve  dethroned  princes,  around  whom  exile,  al- 
ready lasting  over  a  year  and  threatening  to  con- 
tinue, casts  mourning  and  solitude.  .  .  Your 
ideas  are  ours.  .  .  The  king  has  had  a  few  liberal 
fancies,  but  he  recognized  their  nothingness  after 
his  fall.  The  queen  .  .  .  the  queen  is  sublime  .  .  . 
you  will  see  it." 

"When?"  asked  the  fanatic,  again  seized  by 
his  chimera  to  make  a  king  through  his  own 
genius,  as  a  writer  makes  a  work. 

A  meeting  was  at  once  agreed  upon. 

When  filysee  Me"raut  thought  of  his  childhood 
—  and  he  often  thought  of  it,  for  all  the  strong 
impressions  of  his  life  lay  there  —  this  is  what  he 
saw :  a  large  room  with  three  windows,  inundated 
with  light,  and  each  window  occupied  by  a  Jac- 
quart  loom  for  weaving  silk,  lifting  its  tall  uprights 
and  interlacing  meshes  like  a  blind  against  the 
light  and  the  prospect  without,  namely,  a  cluster 
of  roofs  of  houses  running  downhill,  all  the  win- 
dows furnished  with  the  same  looms,  at  each  of 
which  worked  two  men,  seated,  in  their  shirt- 
sleeves, mingling  their  motions  on  the  frame  like 
pianists  in  playing  a  duet.  Between  these  houses 
little  gardens  like  alleys  climbed  the  hillside, — 
Southern  gardens,  burnt-up,  arid,  pallid,  and  de- 
prived of  air,  filled  with  fleshy  plants,  rampant 
bottle-gourds,  and  great  sunflowers  expanding 


A  Royalist.  41 

toward  the  west  with  the  drooping  attitude  of 
corollas  seeking  their  god,  and  filling  the  air  with 
the  sickly  odour  of  their  ripening  seeds,  an  odour 
which,  after  twenty  years'  absence,  FJysee  smelt 
whenever  he  thought  of  his  early  home. 

Above  this  workmen's  quarter,  humming  and 
crowded  like  a  hive,  was  a  stony  height  on  which 
stood  a  few  old  windmills  now  abandoned,  former 
feeders  of  the  town  and  still  preserved  for  their 
long  services,  lifting  high  their  skeleton  sails  like 
gigantic  antennae,  letting  their  stones  detach  them- 
selves and  whirl  away  in  the  wind  with  the  acrid 
dust  of  those  southern  regions.  Under  the  pro- 
tection of  these  ancestral  mills  the  manners  and 
traditions  of  another  age  were  preserved.  The 
whole  town  (this  corner  of  its  suburb  was  called 
the  Enclos  de  Rey)  was,  and  still  is,  ardently  roya- 
list ;  in  each  workroom  will  be  found  hanging  to 
the  wall — pink,  puffy,  blond,  with  long  hair  curled 
and  pomatumed  with  high-lights  on  its  curls  — 
the  portrait  (clothed  in  the  fashions  of  1840)  of 
him  whom  the  weavers  called  familiarly  among 
themselves  lou  Got —  the  lamester.  In  the  work- 
room of  FJyseVs  father,  below  this  frame  was 
another,  much  smaller,  surrounding  a  sheet  of 
blue  letter-paper  on  which  was  a  great  red  seal 
with  the  two  words,  Fides,  Spes,  around  a  cross 
of  Saint  Andrew.  From  his  seat,  as  he  kept  his 
shuttle  going,  Maitre  Meraut  could  see  the  picture 
and  read  the  motto:  "Faith,  Hope."  .  .  And  his 
broad  face,  with  its  sculptural  lines  like  the  coins 
of  Antoninus,  which  itself  had  the  aquiline  nose 


42  Kings  in  Exile. 

and  the  full  outlines  of  the  Bourbons  he  loved  so 
well,  swelled  up  and  crimsoned  with  his  strong 
emotion. 

He  was  a  terrible  man,  Maitre  Meraut,  violent, 
despotic,  to  whom  the  habit  of  over-topping  the 
noise  of  battens  and  headles  had  given  a  voice  like 
the  blast  and  rolling  of  a  storm.  His  wife,  on  the 
contrary,  timid  and  retiring,  imbued  with  those 
submissive  traditions  which  made  the  Southern 
women  of  the  vieille  roc  he  (the  old  regime)  mere 
slaves,  Eastern  slaves,  had  taken  a  resolution  to 
never  utter  a  word.  It  was  in  such  a  home  as  this 
that  Elysee  grew  up,  —  treated  less  harshly  than  his 
two  brothers,  because  he  was  the  last  comer  and 
always  puny.  Instead  of  being  put  to  the  shuttle 
when  eight  years  old,  he  was  left  in  a  little  of  that 
good  liberty  so  necessary  to  childhood ;  liberty 
which  he  employed  in  roaming  the  suburb  and 
battling  on  the  hill-top  under  the  windmills,  whites 
against  reds,  Catholics  against  Huguenots.  They 
are  still  in  the  thick  of  those  hatreds  in  that  part 
of  Languedoc !  The  children  were  divided  into 
two  camps;  each  had  its  mill,  the  falling  stones 
of  which  served  them  as  projectiles.  Then  were 
invectives  launched,  then  did  the  missiles  fly  hiss- 
ing from  the  slings.  For  hours  together  Homeric 
battles  were  fought,  ending  tragically  with  some 
bloody  gash  upon  a  ten-year-old  forehead,  or 
among  the  tangle  of  a  mass  of  curls,  —  wounds 
that  scar  for  a  lifetime  the  tender  epidermis,  and 
which  E"lys6e  the  man  still  showed  on  one  temple 
and  at  the  corner  of  his  mouth. 


A  Royalist.  43 

Oh !  those  windmills ;  the  mother  cursed  them 
when  her  last-born  was  brought  back  one  evening, 
all  blood  and  tatters.  The  father  scolded  as  a  matter 
of  form  and  habit,  and  in  order  not  to  let  his  thunder 
rust;  but  at  table  he  made  the  boy  relate  all  the 
vicissitudes  of  the  battle  and  the  names  of  the 
combatants. 

"  Tholozan  !  .  .  Tholozan  !  .  .  So  there  are  still 
some  left  of  that  race  !  .  .  Ha !  the  blackguard. 
I  had  the  father  at  the  end  of  my  gun  in  1815, 
and  I  'd  better  have  laid  him  low  then." 

Here  followed  a  long  history,  related  in  the 
Languedocian  patois,  picturesque  and  brutal,  which 
spared  neither  phrase  nor  syllable,  telling  of  the 
days  when  he  enrolled  himself  among  the  young 
recruks  of  the  Due  d'Angouleme,  a  great  general, 
a  saint 

These  tales,  heard  a  hundred  times,  but  varied 
by  the  ardour  of  paternal  fancy,  remained  as 
deeply  in  Elysee's  soul  as  the  scars  of  the  wind- 
mill stones  upon  his  face.  He  lived  in  a  royalist 
legend,  of  which  the  Saint-Henri  and  January  21 
were  the  commemorative  dates,  in  fervent  vene- 
ration of  the  prince-martyrs  blessing  the  people 
by  the  fingers  of  their  bishops,  and  of  brave 
princesses  wandering  on  horseback  for  the  good 
cause,  persecuted,  betrayed,  and  trapped  at  last 
behind  the  chimney  of  a  Breton  hostelry.  To 
enliven  the  gloom  which  this  series  of  griefs  and 
exile  would  otherwise  have  produced  on  the  brain 
of  a  child,  the  story  of  the  "  Fowl  in  the  pot "  and 
the  song  of  the  "  Vert-Galant "  came  in  with  glori- 


44  Kings  in  Exile. 

ous  memories  and  all  the  dash  of  the  old,  old  France. 
That  song  of  the  "  Vert-Galant "  was  the  Mar- 
seillaise of  the  Enclos  de  Rey.  When  on  Sunday, 
after  vespers,  the  table  being  wedged  up  with 
much  trouble  on  the  slope  of  the  little  garden,  the 
Merauts  dined  "  in  the  good  of  the  air,"  as  they  say 
in  those  parts,  —  that  is,  in  the  stifling  atmosphere 
that  follows  a  summer's  day,  when  the  heat,  amassed 
in  the  soil  and  in  the  plaster  of  the  walls,  comes 
out  fiercer  and  more  unhealthy  than  under  the 
full  sunlight,  —  the  old  weaver  would  peal  forth  in 
a  voice  that  was  famous  among  his  neighbours: 
"  Vive  Henri  IV  !  Long  live  the  King  valiant !  " 
All  was  silent  around  him  throughout  the  neigh- 
bourhood. Nothing  was  heard  but  the  dry  rending 
of  the  reeds  splitting  with  the  heat,  the  crackling 
of  the  wings  of  some  belated  cicala,  and  that 
ancient  royalist  song  rolling  out  majestically,  with 
its  stiff  and  stately  march  in  trunk-hose  and  far- 
thingale, the  refrain  of  which  was  always  sung  in 
chorus :  A  la  saute1  de  notre  roi,  —  c'est  un  Henri 
de  bon  aloi, —  qui  fera  le  bien  de  toi,  de  moi.  That 
de  toi,  de  moi  ("of  thee,  of  me"),  rhymed  and 
fugued,  was  very  amusing  to  filys6e  and  his 
brothers,  who  sang  it  jostling  and  shoving  each 
other,  —  which  always  brought  them  a  blast  from 
their  father ;  but  the  song  did  not  stop  for.  matters 
like  that,  and  on  it  went  amid  shouts  and  laughter 
and  sobs,  like  the  canticle  of  the  convulsionaries 
round  the  tomb  of  the  deacon  Paris. 

Mingled  thus  with  all  the  family  festivities,  this 
name  of  king  had  for  filys6e,  quite  outside  of  its 


A  Royalist.  45 

prestige  in  fairy-tales  and  "  history  adapted  to 
childhood, "  a  certain  something  of  home,  of  his 
own  life.  What  added  to  this  sentiment  were 
mysterious  letters  on  foreign  paper  which  arrived 
from  Frohsdorf  two  or  three  times  a  year  for  all 
the  inhabitants  of  the  Enclos,  —  autographs  in  a 
delicate  handwriting  with  long  tails,  in  which  the 
king  spoke  to  his  people,  urging  them  to  have 
patience.  .  .  On  those  days  Maitre  Meraut  threw 
his  shuttle  with  more  gravity  than  usual,  and  in 
the  evening,  the  door  being  carefully  closed,  he 
began  to  read  the  circular  letter,  always  the  same 
mild  and  gentle  proclamation  in  words  as  vague  as 
hope  itself:  "  Frenchmen,  they  are  deceived,  and 
they  deceive  you.  .  ."  Always  the  same  invariable 
seal,  —  Fides,  Spes.  Ah  !  poor  souls,  it  was  neither 
faith  nor  hope  they  lacked. 

"  When  the  king  returns,"  Maitre  Me'raut  would 
say,  "  I  shall  buy  me  a  good  arm-chair.  .  .  When 
the  king  returns  we  will  change  the  paper  in  the 
bedroom."  Later,  after  his  journey  to  Frohsdorf, 
the  formula  changed.  "  When  I  had  the  honour 
to  see  the  king"  he  said  on  all  occasions. 

The  good  man  had  indeed  accomplished  that 
pilgrimage,  a  true  sacrifice  of  time  and  money  for 
a  workman  like  himself;  and  never  Hadji  returning 
from  Mecca  came  back  more  dazzled.  The  inter- 
view was,  however,  very  short.  To  the  faithful 
introduced  into  his  presence,  the  king,  so-called, 
had  said,  "  Ah  !  here  you  are ;  "  and  no  one  found 
anything  to  say  in  reply  to  that  affable  greeting, 
Meraut  least  of  all,  being  suffocated  with  emotion, 


46  Kings  in  Exile. 

and  his  eyes  so  blurred  with  tears  that  he  did  not 
even  see  the  features  of  his  idol.  On  departing, 
however,  the  Due  d'Athis,  military  secretary,  had 
questioned  him  long  on  the  state  of  feeling  in 
France ;  and  we  can  imagine  what  the  enthusiastic 
weaver,  who  had  never  before  left  the  Enclos  de 
Key,  made  answer  to  that  inquiry. 

"  But  let  him,  coquin  de  bon  sort  /  let  him  come, 
and  come  quickly,  our  Henri  .  .  .  they  are  languish- 
ing to  see  him." 

Whereupon  the  Due  d'Athis,  delighted  with 
the  information,  thanked  him  much  and  asked 
abruptly :  — 

"  Have  you  children,  Maitre  Meraut?  " 

"  I  have  three,  Monsieur  le  due." 

"Boys?" 

"  Yes  .  .  .  three  children  .  .  ."  repeated  the  old 
weaver,  for  among  the  people  of  those  parts  girls 
are  not  counted  as  children. 

"  Very  good.  I  shall  make  note  of  that.  .  . 
Monseigneur  will  remember  them  when  the  day 
comes." 

On  which  M.  le  due  pulled  out  his  note-book 
and  era  .  .  .  era  .  .  .  The  era  .  .  .  era  with  which 
the  worthy  man  expressed  the  sound  and  motion  of 
the  protector  in  writing  down  the  fact  of  his  three 
sons  invariably  formed  part  of  this  tale  included  in 
the  family  annals,  annals  so  touching,  if  only  for 
the  immutability  of  their  smallest  details.  Ever 
after,  in  times  when  work  was  at  a  stand-still, 
when  the  mother  was  terrified  to  see  the  husband 
growing  old  and  the  savings  of  the  household 


A  Royalist.  47 

diminishing,  that  era  .  .  .  era  .  .  .  replied  to  her 
anxieties,  timidly  expressed,  for  the  future  of  her 
children  :  "  Be  easy,  va  !  .  .  the  Due  d'Athis  made 
note  of  them." 

Becoming  suddenly  ambitious  for  his  sons,  the 
old  weaver,  having  seen  his  two  elder  boys  leave 
the  home  and  enter  the  same  narrow  path  as  their 
father,  concentrated  all  his  hopes  and  desires  for 
grandeur  upon  filysee.  He  sent  him  to  the  In- 
stitution Papel,  kept  by  one  of  those  Spanish 
refugees  who  crowded  the  cities  of  the  South  after 

o 

the  capitulation  of  Marotto.  It  was  in  the  quarter 
of  the  Butchers'  shops,  an  old  dilapidated  house, 
rotting  in  the  shadow  of  the  cathedral,  as  the 
nitrified  cracks  in  its  walls  and  its  verdigrised  little 
window-panes  showed  plainly.  To  get  there,  it 
was  necessary  to  follow  a  line  of  shops  bristling  with 
lance-head  railings,  from  which  hung  enormous 
quarters  of  meat  surrounded  by  an  unhealthy 
buzzing,  and  pass  through  a  network  of  narrow 
streets,  the  pavements  of  which  were  always  sticky 
and  red  with  bloody  detritus.  When  he  thought 
of  it  all  in  after  years  it  seemed  to  Elysee  as  if  he 
had  spent  his  childhood  in  the  middle  ages,  be- 
neath the  ferule  and  the  knotted  rope  of  a  terrible 
fanatic,  whose  Latin  in  ous  alternated,  in  the  sordid 
black  classrooms,  with  the  blessings  or  wrath  of 
the  neighbouring  bells  as  it  descended  on  the  apse 
of  the  old  church,  on  its  buttresses,  stone  foliage, 
and  the  fantastic  heads  of  its  gargoyles.  This  little 
Papel — face  enormous  and  oily,  shaded  by  a  greasy 
white  beretta,  pulled  down  to  the  eyes  to  hide  a 


48  Kings  in  Exile. 

thick  and  swollen  blue  vein  which  separated  the 
eyebrows  —  was  like  a  dwarf  in  the  pictures  of 
Velasquez,  minus  the  brilliant  tunics  of  the  paint- 
ing and  the  stern  bronzing  of  time.  Brutal  withal 
and  cruel,  but  holding  in  his  large  skull  a  stupen- 
dous magazine  of  ideas;  a  living,  luminous  ency- 
clopedia, closed,  one  might  say,  by  an  obstinate 
royalism  as  a  bar  put  up  across  it,  and  well  typified 
by  the  abnormal  swelling  of  that  strange  vein. 

It  was  rumoured  in  town  that  the  name  of  Papel 
hid  another  that  was  much  more  famous,  that  of  a 
cabecilla  of  Don  Carlos,  celebrated  for  his  fero- 
cious manner  of  making  war  and  varying  death. 
Living  so  near  to  the  Spanish  frontier,  his  dreadful 
reputation  hampered  him  and  forced  him  to  live 
anonymously.  How  much  truth  was  there  in  that 
tale?  During  the  many  years  that  he  passed  with 
that  master,  filys6e,  although  he  was  M.  Papel's 
favourite  pupil,  never  heard  the  terrible  dwarf  say 
one  word,  or  knew  him  to  receive  a  single  visit 
or  letter,  that  could  confirm  this  suspicion.  But 
when  the  boy  became  a  man,  and,  his  studies 
being  finished,  the  Enclos  de  Rey  was  found  to  be 
too  narrow  for  his  laurels,  his  diplomas,  and  his 
father's  ambition,  and  it  became  a  question  of 
sending  him  to  Paris,  M.  Papel  gave  him  several 
letters  of  introduction  to  the  chiefs  of  the  legitimist 
party,  heavy  letters  sealed  with  mysterious  armo- 
rial bearings,  which  seemed  to  give  some  colour  to 
the  cabecilla  legend. 

Maitre  Meraut  had  exacted  this  journey;  for  he 
had  begun  to  think  that  the  return  of  his  king  was 


A  Royalist.  49 

too  long  delayed.  He  bled  himself,  as  they  say, 
by  all  four  veins ;  he  sold  his  gold  watch,  the 
mother's  silver  key-chain,  the  vineyard  which 
every  villager  possessed,  —  and  this  quite  simply, 
heroically,  for  the  Cause. 

"  Go  and  see  what  they  are  doing,"  he  said  to 
his  youngest.  "What  are  they  waiting  for?  The 
Enclos  is  wearying  for  the  end  of  ends." 

At  twenty  years  of  age  filyse"e  Meraut  arrived  in 
Paris,  boiling  over  with  passionate  convictions,  in 
which  the  blind  devotion  of  his  father  was  fortified 
by  the  well-equipped  fanaticism  of  his  Spanish 
teacher.  He  was  received  by  the  royalist  party 
as  a  traveller  is  who  enters  a  first-class  railway 
carriage  during  the  night,  when  the  other  pas- 
sengers have  settled  themselves  down  to  sleep. 
The  intruder  coming  from  the  outside,  his  blood 
stirred  by  the  keen  air  and  movement,  with  a 
communicative  desire  to  talk,  question,  and  post- 
pone sleep,  brings  up  against  the  somnolent  and 
scowling  ill-humour  of  persons  buried  in  their 
furs,  rocked  by  the  motions  of  the  train,  and 
screened  by  the  little  blue  curtain  drawn  across 
the  lamp,  in  a  heavy,  damp  heat,  fearing  nothing 
so  much  as  draughts  of  air  and  the  entrance  of 
disturbing  passengers.  That  was  the  aspect  of 
the  Legitimist  clan  under  the  empire,  in  its  aban- 
doned, side-tracked  railway-carriage. 

This  fanatic,  with  his  black  eyes  and  his  lean 
lion's-head,  enunciating  every  syllable  as  if  to  carry 
his  audience,  enforcing  every  sentence  with  ve- 
hement gestures,  possessing  in  himself,  ready  for 

4 


50  Kings  in  Exile. 

anything,  the  fire  of  a  Suleau  and  the  audacity  of 
a  Cadoudal,  caused  an  astonishment  mingled  with 
alarm  among  the  party.  They  thought  him  dan- 
gerous, disquieting.  Under  their  excessive  polite- 
ness and  the  marks  of  fictitious  interest  given  by 
well-bred  people,  Elysde,  with  that  lucidity  which 
the  South  of  France  always  retains  in  the  midst  of 
its  enthusiasms,  soon  felt  what  there  was  of  selfish- 
ness and  dull  acceptance  of  defeat  among  these 
persons.  In  their  opinion  there  was  nothing  to  be 
done  at  present;  they  ought  to  wait;  above  all, 
be  calm,  and  guard  against  enthusiasm  and  juvenile 
rashness.  "  See  Monseigneur,"  they  said ;  "  what 
an  example  he  sets  us !  " 

And  these  counsels  of  wisdom,  of  moderation, 
suited  well  with  the  old  mansions  of  the  Faubourg, 
swathed  in  ivy,  deaf  to  the  noise  of  the  streets, 
happed  in  comfort  and  idleness  behind  their 
massive  gates  heavy  with  the  weight  of  centuries 
and  traditions.  Out  of  politeness  he  was  invited 
to  two  or  three  political  meetings,  held  in  great 
mystery,  with  all  sorts  of  fears  and  precautions,  in 
the  recesses  of  these  nests  of  rancour.  There  he 
saw  the  great  names  of  the  Vendean  wars  and  the 
fusillades  of  Quiberon,  glorious  names  inscribed  on 
the  Field  of  Martyrs,  borne  by  worthy  old  gentle- 
men with  shaved  faces,  clothed  smugly  in  broad- 
cloth like  prelates,  gentle  of  speech,  and  always 
sticky  with  gum-drops.  They  arrived  with  the 
air  of  conspirators,  each  declaring  that  he  was  fol- 
lowed by  the  police  —  who,  in  truth,  amused 
themselves  much  with  these  platonic  rendezvous. 


A  Royalist.  51 

Whist-tables  having  been  started  under  the  dis- 
creet light  of  tall  candles  well-shaded,  the  skulls 
leaned  together,  shining  like  billiard-balls;  some 
one  gave  news  from  Frohsdorf,  and  they  all  ad- 
mired the  inalterable  patience  of  the  exiles,  exhort- 
ing each  other  to  imitate  it.  In  very  low  voices,  — 
hush  !  hush  !  —  they  repeated  de  Barentin's  last 
pun  about  the  empress,  and  hummed  beneath  their 
breath  a  scandalous  song  on  the  emperor.  Then, 
frightened  at  their  own  audacity,  the  conspirators 
slipped  away,  one  by  one,  hugging  the  walls  of  the 
Rue  de  Varennes,  broad  and  deserted,  which 
returned  them  a  disquieting  echo  of  the  sound  of 
their  own  feet. 

filysee  saw  plainly  that  he  was  too  young,  too 
active  for  these  ghosts  of  Old  France.  Besides, 
the  full  tide  of  the  imperial  epopee  was  on ;  the 
return  from  the  wars  of  Italy  brought  a  flight  of 
victorious  eagles  along  the  boulevards  and  beneath 
the  bannered  windows.  The  son  of  the  village 
weaver  was  not  long  in  comprehending  that  the 
opinion  of  the  Enclos  de  Rey  was  far  from  univer- 
sally shared,  and  that  the  return  of  the  legitimate 
king  would  be  more  tardy  than  they  supposed 
down  there.  His  royalism  was  not  damaged ;  but 
he  raised  and  enlarged  the  idea  of  it  within  himself, 
inasmuch  as  outward  action  was  now  not  possible. 
He  dreamed  of  writing  a  book,  of  casting  forth  his 
convictions,  his  beliefs  —  all  that  he  craved  to  say 
and  spread  —  to  that  great  Paris  he  would  fain 
convince.  His  plan  was  made  at  once :  he  would 
earn  his  livelihood  by  giving  lessons,  and  these 


^  2  Kings  in  Exile. 

were  quickly  found;  he  would  write  his  book  in 
his  leisure  intervals,  and  this  took  more  time  than 
he  thought. 

Like  others  of  his  region,  Elyse'e  M^raut  was, 
above  all,  a  man  of  speech  and  gesture.      Ideas 
only  came  to  him  on  his  feet,  to  the  sound  of  his 
own  voice,  like  the  lightning  which  the  vibration 
of  bells  attracts  to  the  steeple.     Fed  by  reading, 
by   facts,   by    constant    meditation,    his    thought, 
which  escaped   all-foaming   from    his   lips,  words 
hurrying   words    in    a    sonorous    eloquence,    fell 
slowly,  drop  by  drop,  from  his  pen,  coming  from 
a  reservoir  too  vast  for  such  limited  filtration  and 
all  the  delicacies  of  written  language.     To  speak 
his  convictions  soothed   him,  now  that  he  could 
find  no  other  outlet  for   their   flow.      He   spoke 
therefore  at  \hz  popottes  (eating-house  table-cThotes) 
at  the  conferences,  but  especially  in  caf^s,  those 
caf£s  of  the  Latin  quarter  which,  in  the  crouching 
Paris  of  the  second  empire,  when  book  and  news- 
paper were  both  muzzled,  formed  the  only  Oppo- 
sition.    Every  one  of  them  had  its  orator,  its  great 
man.    Their  frequenters  said  to  each  other :  "  Pes- 
quidoux  of  the  '  Voltaire '    is  very  powerful,  but 
Larminat  of  the  '  Procope '  is  more  so."     In  fact, 
to    those   cafes    came   a   whole   educated    youth, 
eloquent,    their    minds    busy    with    lofty    things, 
transplanting  (but  with   more   warmth   of    fancy 
and  spirit)  the  fine  political  and  philosophical  dis- 
cussions of  the  Breweries  of  Bonn  and  Heidelberg. 
In  these  forges  of  ideas,  smoking,  noisy,  whose 
frequenters  shouted   hard  and  drank  harder,  the 


A  Royalist.  53 

singular  vehemence  of  this  Gascon,  always  im- 
passioned, who  never  smoked,  was  drunk  without 
drinking,  his  blunt  imaginative  speech  developing 
convictions  as  out  of  date  as  hoops  and  powder, 
as  discordant  with  the  place  in  which  they  were 
uttered  as  the  taste  of  an  antiquary  with  the  knick- 
knacks  of  Paris  —  all  this  soon  won  fame  and  an 
audience  for  the  speaker.  When  the  gas  flamed 
in  the  packed  and  roaring  cafe's,  when  he  was  seen 
to  appear  on  the  threshold,  with  his  lank  and 
slouching  figure,  his  near-sighted,  rather  haggard 
eyes,  whose  efforts  at  vision  seemed  to  blow  his 
hair  out  to  the  wind,  his  hat  on  the  back  of  his 
head,  and  always  under  his  arm  some  pamphlet  or 
review,  from  which  stuck  out  a  monstrous  paper- 
knife,  everybody  jumped  up  and  the  cry  went 
round:  "Here's  Me"raut !  "  Then  they  would  all 
squeeze  together  and  leave  him  a  space  in  which 
to  play  his  elbows  and  gesticulate  at  his  ease. 
The  moment  he  entered,  this  greeting  of  youth, 
these  cries  excited  him,  also  the  warmth,  the  lights 
—  those  gas-lights,  intoxicating,  congestionizing ! 
Then  on  some  subject  or  another, — the  newspaper 
of  the  day,  the  book  open  on  the  stall  under  the 
Odeon  as  he  passed,  —  he  was  off  at  a  tangent,  sit- 
ting, standing,  holding  the  cafe*  with  his  voice, 
gathering  and  grouping  his  auditors  with  a  gesture. 
The  games  at  dominoes  stopped  rattling ;  the  bil- 
liard players  on  the  floor  above  leaned  over  the 
baluster,  cues  in  hand,  and  their  long  pipes  held 
between  their  teeth.  The  window-panes,  the  beer- 
glasses,  the  tin  trays  shook  as  when  a  mail-coach 


54  Kings  in  Exile. 

passed,  and  the  dame  du  comptoir  said  with  pride 
to  those  who  entered :  "  Come  in,  quick !  .  .  we 
have  M.  Meraut."  Ah!  Pesquidoux,  Larminat — • 
they  were  strong  in  their  way,  but  he  could  beat 
them  all. 

He  thus  became  the  orator  of  the  quarter.  That 
glory,  to  which  he  had  not  aspired,  sufficed  him, 
so  that  it  fatally  delayed  and  hindered  him.  Such 
was  the  fate  of  more  than  one  Larminat  of  that 
period,  —  noble  forces  lost,  motor  powers  or  levers 
allowing  their  steam  to  escape  with  a  great 
noise  uselessly,  through  the  carelessness,  want  of 
method,  or  bad  management  of  the  engineer.  In 
Elysee's  case  there  was  something  besides.  With- 
out intrigue,  without  ambition,  this  Southerner, 
who  had  nothing  of  his  own  land  about  him  but  its 
fiery  spirit,  considered  himself  a  missionary  of  his 
faith ;  and  this  missionary  character  showed  itself 
in  his  unwearying  proselytism,  his  vigorous  and  in- 
dependent nature,  the  disinterestedness  that  took 
small  account  of  fees  and  pay,  —  a  life,  in  short,  at 
the  mercy  of  the  hardest  chances  of  his  vocation. 

Certain  it  is  that  during  the  eighteen  years  when 
he  was  sowing  the  seed  of  his  ideas  amid  the 
youth  of  Paris,  more  than  one  of  his  hearers  attain- 
ing later  to  great  reputation,  who  had  been  known 
to  say,  "  Ah !  yes,  Meraut  ...  an  old  student,"  did 
actually  win  the  greater  part  of  his  fame  from  the 
rich  scraps  carelessly  flung  to  all  corners  of  the 
table  by  the  singular  fellow  who  sat  there,  filys^e 
knew  this,  and  when  he  found,  under  the  green 
binding  of  some  lord  of  letters,  certain  of  his 


A  Royalist.  55 

chimeras  reduced  to  reason  in  .  fine  academic 
phrase,  he  was  happy,  with  the  disinterested  hap- 
piness of  a  father  who  sees  the  daughters  of  his 
heart  married  and  rich,  although  he  has  no  share 
in  their  prosperity.  It  was  the  same  chivalrous 
abnegation  as  that  of  the  old  weaver  of  the  Enclos 
de  Rey,  but  with  something  broader,  higher, 
because  the  confidence  in  success  was  lacking,  — 
that  unshaken  confidence  which  the  brave  old 
Meraut  kept  to  his  dying  day.  The  very  evening 
before  his  death  —  for  he  died  of  a  sunstroke  after 
one  of  his  dinners  in  "  the  good  of  the  air  "  — the 
old  fellow  said  at  the  top  of  his  voice :  "  Vive 
Henri  Quatre !  Long  live  the  King  valiant ! " 
Nigh  upon  death,  his  eyes  blurred,  his  tongue 
heavy,  he  said  to  his  wife :  "  Easy  about  the 
children.  .  .  Due  d'Athis  .  .  .  took  note  .  .  ."  and 
with  his  dying  hand  he  tried  to  make  a  era-era 
upon  the  coverlet. 

When  Elysee,  informed  too  late  of  this  crushing 
news,  arrived  from  Paris,  his  father  lay  stretched 
upon  his  bed,  his  hands  crossed,  motionless  and 
wan,  the  pillow  to  the  wall,  which  still  awaited  its 
new  paper.  Through  the  door  of  the  work-room, 
left  open,  he  could  see  the  looms  at  rest,  that  of 
his  father  abandoned  like  a  ship  with  its  masts 
gone  which  the  winds  can  impel  no  more,  and  the 
portrait  of  the  king  with  the  red  seal  beneath  it, 
which  had  presided  ever  over  this  life  of  toil  and 
of  fidelity ;  and  above,  away  above  the  Enclos  de 
Rey,  perched  and  humming  on  the  hillside,  those 
old  mills,  still  erect,  raising  their  arms  in  the  clear 


5  6  Kings  in  Exile. 

blue  sky  with  despairing  gesture.  Never  did 
Elysee  forget  that  spectacle  of  serene  death  tak- 
ing the  toiler  from  his  work  and  closing  his  eyes 
to  the  accustomed  horizon.  He  was  struck  with 
envy,. —  he  who  felt  his  own  life  in  the  grasp  of 
visions  and  adventure,  and  who  incarnated  in  him- 
self all  the  chimerical  illusions  of  the  fine  old  man 
who  lay  there  sleeping. 

It  was  on  his  return  from  this  sad  journey  that 
the  office  of  preceptor  at  the  Court  of  X.  .  .  was 
offered  to  him.  His  disillusionment  was  so  keen, 
the  pettinesses,  the  rivalries,  the  envious  calumnies 
in  which  he  found  himself  involved,  the  splendid 
stage  of  Monarchy  seen  too  near,  from  the  side 
scenes  as  it  were,  all  this  had  so  deeply  saddened 
him  that  in  spite  of  his  admiration  for  the  King 
of  Illyria,  the  monks  had  no  sooner  left  him  than 
the  fever  of  enthusiasm  died  away  and  he  regretted 
a  decision  made  so  hastily.  His  vexations  at  the 
Court  of  X.  .  .  came  back  to  him,  the  sacrifice  he 
must  make  of  his  life,  his  liberty;  and  then  his 
book,  that  famous  book  always  stirring  in  his 
head.  .  .  In  short,  after  long  debates  with  himself, 
he  resolved  to  say  no,  and  the  day  before  Christ- 
mas, the  proposed  interview  being  very  near,  he 
wrote  to  Pere  Melchior  to  tell  him  of  his  decision. 
The  monk  did  not  protest.  He  merely  replied : 

"To-night,  Rue  des  Fourneaux,  at  midnight 
mass.  .  .  I  still  hope  to  convince  you." 

The  convent  of  the  Franciscans  in  the  Rue  des 
Fourneaux,  where  Pere  Melchior  had  the  functions 


A  Royalist.  57 

of  bursar,  is  one  of  the  most  curious  and  most 
unknown  corners  of  Catholic  Paris.  This  mother- 
house  of  a  celebrated  Order,  hidden  mysteriously 
in  the  sordid  suburb  that  swarms  behind  the 
station  of  the  Montparnasse,  is  also  called  "  The 
Commissariat  of  Saint-Sepulchre."  It  is  there 
that  monks  of  exotic  appearance,  mingling  their 
brown  serge  of  travel  with  the  black  poverty  of 
the  quarter,  bring — for  the  commerce  in  relics  — 
pieces  of  the  true  Cross,  chaplets  in  olive-wood 
from  the  Mount  of  Olives,  roses  of  Jericho,  dry 
and  stringy,  awaiting  their  drop  of  holy  water ;  in 
short,  a  whole  pack  of  miraculous  things,  changed 
erelong  in  the  large  invisible  pockets  of  the  monks' 
robes  into  good  sound  money,  which  makes  its 
way  to  Jerusalem  for  the  maintenance  of  the  sacred 
tomb.  Elysee  had  already  been  taken  to  the  Rue 
des  Fourneaux  by  a  sculptor,  a  friend  of  his,  a 
poor  artist  in  camera,  named  Dreux,  who  had  just 
made  a  statue  for  the  convent  of  Saint  Margaret 
of  Ossuna,  and  therefore  took  all  the  people  he 
could  muster  to  see  it.  The  place  was  so  curious, 
so  picturesque,  it  gratified  the  Southerner's  con- 
victions so  much  by  connecting  them — saving 
them  thus  from  modern  lucidity  —  with  the  far-off 
centuries  and  lands  of  tradition,  that  he  often  re- 
turned there,  to  the  great  joy  of  his  friend  Dreux, 
quite  proud  of  this  success  of  his  Marguerite. 

On  the  evening  of  the  rendezvous,  it  was  close 
upon  midnight  when  filys6e  Meraut  left  the  growl- 
ing streets  of  the  Latin  quarter,  where  the  hot-meat 
shops,  the  ribbon-looking  food  of  the  pork-butchers, 


5  8  Kings  in  Exile. 

the  stalls  for  other  eatables,  the  women's  breweries, 
the  student's  lodging-houses,  all  the  traffic  of  the 
Rue  Racine  and  the  "  Boul  Mich,"  kept  up  until 
early  morning  the  odour  and  flare  of  a  universal 
junketing.  Without  transition  he  fell  suddenly 
into  the  sadness  of  deserted  streets,  where  the 
passers,  diminished  in  height  by  the  reflection  of 
the  gas,  seemed  to  creep  instead  of  walk.  The 
shrill  bells  of  the  Communities  were  ringing  be- 
hind their  walls,  above  which  rose  the  skeletons  of 
trees ;  the  noises  and  heat  of  straw  turned  over  in 
the  sleeping  stables  came  from  the  great  closed 
courtyards  of  the  dairy-men ;  the  broad  street  still 
held  the  snow  that  had  fallen  through  the  day,  a 
vague  and  trampled  whiteness ;  while  above,  among 
the  stars  that  were  brightened  with  the  cold,  the  son 
of  the  weaver,  walking  in  a  dream  of  ardent  belief, 
imagined  that  he  saw  the  one  which  had  guided 
the  kings  to  Bethlehem.  Gazing  at  that  star,  he 
recalled  the  Christmas  Eves  of  other  days,  the 
white  Christmases  of  his  youth  celebrated  in  the 
Cathedral;  again  he  returned,  through  the  fan- 
tastic streets  of  the  Boucheries,  slashed  with 
shadows  of  roofs  and  moonlight,  to  the  family 
table  of  the  Enclos  de  Rey,  around  which  they 
awaited  the  rfoeillon,  namely:  the  three  tra- 
ditional wax-candles  in  the  greenery  of  the  holly 
with  its  scarlet  berries,  and  the  estevenons  (small 
Christmas  rolls)  smelling  so  good  of  their  warm 
dough,  and  the  fried  bacon.  He  enveloped  him- 
self so  thoroughly  in  these  family  recollections  that 
the  lantern  of  a  rag-picker  coming  along  the  side- 


A  Royalist.  59 

walk  seemed  to  him  the  one  Pere  MeVaut  swung 
as  he  marched  at  the  head  of  his  troop,  returning 
from  the  midnight  mass. 

Ah !  poor  father,  whom  he  should  never  see 
again ! 

While  he  thus  talked  of  the  past  in  whispers 
with  those  dear  shades,  FJys^e  reached  the  Rue  des 
Fourneaux,  a  suburb  lighted  by  one  street  lamp 
and  occupied  chiefly  by  long  manufactories  topped 
with  tall  chimneys,  standing  behind  board  fences, 
their  walls  built  of  the  materials  of  torn-down 
houses.  The  wind  was  blowing  violently  across 
the  open  plain  of  the  outskirts.  From  a  neigh- 
bouring slaughter-house  came  lamentable  howls, 
the  dull  sound  of  blows,  and  a  fetid  smell  of  blood 
and  grease ;  for  that  is  where  they  cut  the  throats 
of  pigs  sacrificed  at  Christmas,  as  at  the  feasts  of 
the  Teutates. 

The  convent,  which  stands  about  the  middle  of 
the  street,  had  its  great  portal  open,  and  in  the 
courtyard  were  two  or  three  equipages  the  sumptu- 
ous appointments  of  which  astonished  MeVaut.  The 
service  had  begun,  gusts  from  the  organ  and  chants 
were  issuing  from  the  church,  which  was,  however, 
dark  and  deserted,  the  only  light  being  that  of  the 
small  lamps  upon  the  altar  and  the  pale  reflections 
of  a  snowy  night  on  the  phantasmagoria  of  the 
painted  windows.  The  nave  was  nearly  round, 
draped  with  the  red-cross  standards  of  Jerusalem 
hanging  from  the  walls,  and  adorned  with  coloured 
statues,  rather  barbaric,  while  among  them  stood 
the  Marguerite  of  Ossuna  in  pure  white  marble, 


60  Kings  in  Exile. 

flagellating  pitilessly  her  snowy  shoulders,  because 
—  as  the  monks  will  tell  you  with  a  certain  co-  . 
quetry  —  "  Marguerite  was  the  great  sinner  of  our 
Order."  The  ceiling  of  painted  wood  crossed  by 
little  beams;  the  high  altar  under  a  sort  of  dais 
supported  by  columns;  the  choir,  also  rounded, 
with  carved  wooden  stalls  now  empty;  a  ray  of 
moonlight  falling  athwart  the  open  page  of  a  chant 
book,  —  nothing  of  all  this  was  distinct,  all  was  di- 
vined ;  but,  by  a  broad  stairway  concealed  beneath 
the  choir,  a  descent  was  made  into  a  subterranean 
church,  where  they  were  now  celebrating,  perhaps 
in  memory  of  the  catacombs,  the  midnight  mass. 

At  the  farther  end  of  this  cavern,  in  the  white 
masonry  supported  by  enormous  columns,  was 
reproduced  the  tomb  of  Christ  at  Jerusalem ;  its 
low  door,  its  narrow  crypt  lighted  by  a  number 
of  sepulchral  little  lamps,  glimmering  from  their 
stone  sockets  on  a  Christ  in  tinted  wax  of  natural 
size,  his  wounds  bleeding  a  rosy  pink  through  gaps 
in  the  shroud.  At  the  other  end  of  the  cavern, 
like  a  singular  antithesis  inclosing  the  entire  Chris- 
tian epic,  was  one  of  those  artless  reproductions  of 
the  Nativity,  the  manger,  the  animals,  the  babe, 
which  are  yearly  taken  from  the  store  of  legends 
such  as  they  came  of  old  —  worse  carved,  no 
doubt,  but  very  much  larger — from  the  brain  of 
some  visionary.  Now,  as  then,  a  troop  of  children 
and  old  women  hungry  for  tenderness  and  marvels, 
and  the  poor  who  love  Jesus  were  clustering  about 
the  manger,  and  among  them,  to  lilyseVs  surprise, 
in  the  front  rank  of  those  humble  believers,  were 


A  Royalist.  61 

two  men  of  social  rank  and  two  elegant  women, 
kneeling  low  upon  the  flags,  one  of  the  latter  hold- 
ing a  little  boy  wrapped  by  her  two  arms,  that  were 
crossed  in  a  gesture  of  protection  and  prayer. 

"  Those  are  queens,"  an  old  woman  whispered 
to  him,  breathless  with  admiration. 

Elysee  quivered ;  then,  going  nearer,  he  recog- 
nized the  delicate  profile,  the  aristocratic  bearing 
of  Christian  II.  of  Illyria,  and  near  him  the  brown, 
bony  head  and  the  bald  though  still  young  fore- 
head of  the  King  of  Palermo.  Of  the  two  women 
he  could  only  see  the  black  hair,  the  auburn  hair, 
and  that  attitude  of  passionate  motherhood.  Ah  ! 
how  well  he  knew  Meraut,  that  shrewd  old  priest, 
who  had  thus  brought  together,  as  it  were  in  a 
scenic  effect,  the  boy-prince  and  his  future  tutor. 
These  deposed  sovereigns,  coming  to  render  hom- 
age to  God,  who,  to  receive  it,  seemed  to  hide 
himself,  He  too,  in  that  sombre  crypt,  —  this 
assemblage  of  fallen  royalty  and  of  worship  in 
distress,  the  sad  star  of  exile  leading  to  a  suburb 
of  Bethlehem  these  poor  dethroned  Magi,  without 
a  cortege  and  with  empty  hands,  —  all  this  swelled 
his  heart.  The  child,  the  child  above  all,  so 
pathetic,  with  his  little  head  bending  to  the 
animals  in  the  manger,  the  curiosity  of  his  age 
checked  by  a  suffering  quietude.  .  .  And  in 
presence  of  that  six-year-old  brow,  where  the 
future  was  even  now  inclosed,  like  the  butterfly  in 
its  white  chrysalis,  Elysee  thought  how  much  of 
knowledge  and  of  tender  care  was  needed  to  bring 
it  to  a  splendid  outcome. 


62  Kings  in  Exile. 


III. 

THE  COURT  OF   SAINT-MANDE. 

THE  provisional  arrangement  at  the  Hotel  des 
Pyramides  had  lasted  three  months,  six  months, 
with  trunks  that  were  scarcely  unpacked,  bags 
still  buckled,  the  disorder  and  the  uncertainty  of 
encampment.  Every  day  came  favourable  news 
from  Illyria.  Devoid  of  roots,  on  a  new  soil  where 
the  Republic  had  neither  past  nor  hero,  it  took  no 
hold.  The  people,  weary  of  it,  regretted  their  prin- 
ces, and  counsels  of  infallible  certainty  said  to  the 
exiles :  "  Hold  yourselves  ready  .  .  .  the  day  may 
come  to-morrow."  Not  a  nail  was  knocked  in  the 
apartments,  not  a  single  piece  of  furniture  moved 
without  the  exclamation  of  hope :  "  It  is  not  worth 
while."  Nevertheless,  the  exile  continued,  and 
the  queen  was  not  slow  to  understand  that  this  life 
in  a  hotel,  amid  a  rush  of  foreigners,  of  birds  of 
passage  of  all  plumage,  was  contrary  to  the  dignity 
of  their  rank.  Accordingly,  the  tents  were  struck, 
a  house  was  bought,  and  they  installed  themselves 
in  it.  From  being  nomadic,  the  exile  became 
stationary. 

The  house  was  at  Saint-Mande,  on  the  Avenue 
Daumesnil,  at  the  top  of  the  Rue  Herbillon,  in  that 
part  of  it  which  skirts  the  forest  and  is  lined  with 


The  Court  of  Saint- Mande.  63 

elegant  houses  and  coquettish  railings  that  allow  a 
view  of  gravelled  paths,  rounded  porticos,  and 
English  lawns  which  give  illusion  to  a  corner  of 
the  Avenue  of  the  Bois-de-Boulogne.  The  King 
and  Queen  of  Palermo,  without  much  fortune  and 
wishing  to  avoid  the  seductions  and  the  costly 
quarters  of  high-life,  had  already  taken  refuge  in 
one  of  these  houses.  The  Duchess  of  Mechlin- 
bourg,  sister  of  the  Queen  of  Palermo,  had  joined 
her  at  Saint-Mande",  and  together  they  had  little 
difficulty  in  attracting  their  cousin  to  that  quarter. 
But  besides  this  question  of  friendship,  Frederica 
was  very  desirous  of  living  apart  from  the  joyous 
excitements  of  Paris,  of  protesting  against  modern 
society  and  the  prosperities  of  a  republic,  and 
also  of  avoiding  the  curiosity  which  follows  well- 
known  persons,  and  seemed  to  her  an  insult  to  her 
fall.  The  king  at  first  objected  to  the  remoteness 
of  the  situation,  but  he  soon  found  it  a  convenient 
pretext  for  long  daily  absence  and  late  returns  at 
night.  Moreover,  and  this  was  a  chief  considera- 
tion, living  was  cheaper  there  than  elsewhere,  and 
luxury  could  still  be  maintained  at  lower  cost. 

The  establishment  was  comfortable.  A  white 
house  of  three  storeys,  flanked  by  two  towers, 
looked  toward  the  forest  through  the  trees  of  its 
own  little  park ;  while  toward  the  Rue  Herbillon, 
between  the  offices  and  the  greenhouses,  a  large 
gravelled  courtyard  swept  in  a  circle  to  the  portico, 
which  was  covered  by  an  awning  in  the  form  of  a 
tent,  supported  by  two  long,  sloping  lances.  Ten 
horses  in  the  stable,  —  carriage  and  riding-horses 


64  Kings  in  Exile. 

(for  the  queen  rode  daily),  —  liveries  of  Illyria, 
with  bag-wigs,  powdered,  and  a  Swiss,  whose 
halberd  and  green  and  gold  baldrick  were  as 
legendary  at  Saint-Mand6  and  Vincennes  as  the 
wooden  leg  of  old  Daumesnil,  —  all  this  made  a 
suitable  state,  and  was  nearly  new.  In  fact  it  was 
scarcely  a  year  since  Tom  Levis  had  improvised, 
with  all  its  decorations  and  accessories,  the  princely 
scene  on  which  was  played  the  historic  drama  we 
are  about  to  relate. 

Eh !  good  heavens !  yes,  Tom  Levis.  .  .  In 
spite  of  distrust  and  repugnance  they  were  forced 
to  have  recourse  to  him.  That  fat  little  man  had  a 
tenacity,  an  elasticity  that  were  truly  surprising. 
And  such  tricks  in  his  bag !  so  many  keys,  nip- 
pers to  open  or  force  resisting  locks,  —  not  to 
speak  of  certain  ways  of  his  own  that  won  the 
heart  of  tradesmen,  valets,  and  chambermaids. 
"  Above  all,  we  shall  not  employ  Tom  Levis ;  " 
everybody  said  that  to  begin  with.  But  nothing 
advanced.  Tradesmen  did  not  deliver  their  goods, 
servants  rebelled,  until  the  day  when  the  man  of  the 
cab,  having  appeared  with  his  gold  spectacles  and 
the  dangles  on  his  watch  chain, draperies  hung  them- 
selves on  the  walls,  festooned  and  knotted  them- 
selves into  portieres  and  curtains,  and  stretched 
themselves  out  upon  the  floor  in  decorative  and 
padded  carpets.  The  calorifires  burned,  the 
camellias  in  the  greenhouses  bloomed,  the  owners, 
quickly  installed,  had  only  to  enjoy  themselves, 
and  await  on  the  comfortable  seats  in  the  salon  the 
bundle  of  bills  which  soon  arrived  from  all  corners 


The  Court  of  Saint-Maude.  65 

of  Paris.  In  the  Rue  Herbillon  it  was  old  Rosen, 
chief  of  the  civil  and  military  household  who 
received  the  bills,  paid  the  costs,  and  managed  the 
little  fortune  of  the  king  so  adroitly  that  within  this 
gilded  frame  given  to  their  misfortunes  Christian 
and  Frederica  still  lived  handsomely.  Both  kings, 
children  of  kings,  they  were  accustomed  to  see 
themselves  in  effigy  on  their  gold  and  silver  coins, 
and  to  coin  money  themselves  at  their  own  good 
pleasure.  Far,  therefore,  from  being  surprised  at 
this  luxury,  they  felt,  on  the  contrary,  how  much 
was  lacking  in  their  new  existence,  not  to  speak  of 
the  chilling  void  left  about  the  heads  from  which  a 
crown  has  fallen.  In  vain  did  the  house  at  Saint- 
Mande",  so  simple  without,  adorn  itself  within  as 
a  little  palace;  the  queen's  bedroom  exactly  re- 
producing, with  its  blue  silk  hangings  covered  with 
old  Brussels,  her  chamber  in  the  castle  of  Leybach ; 
the  king's  cabinet  identical  with  the  one  he  had 
left ;  on  the  staircases  replicas  of  the  statues  of  the 
royal  residence ;  and  in  the  conservatory  a  warm 
little  monkey-house  with  climbing  Chinese  plants 
for  the  favourite  ouistitis  —  what  were  all  these 
little  details  of  delicate  flattery  to  the  possessors 
of  four  historical  castles  and  summer  residences 
between  sky  and  water,  their  lawns  dipping  to  the 
waves,  in  those  isles  of  verdure  that  are  called 
"  the  gardens  of  the  Adriatic  "  ? 

At  Saint-Mandd  the  Adriatic  was  a  little  lake  in 
the  wood  which  the  queen  could  see  from  her 
windows,  and  which  she  looked  at  sadly  as  the 
exiled  Andromache  gazed  at  the  false  Simoi's, 

5 


66  Kings  in  Exile. 

But,  however  restricted  their  life  might  be,  it  did 
occur  to  Christian,  more  experienced  than  Fred- 
erica,  to  wonder  at  this  relative  profusion. 

"  Rosen  is  incredible  ...  I  don't  really  know 
how  he  manages  to  provide  all  this  with  the  little 
we  have."  Then  he  added,  laughing :  "  We  may 
be  quite  sure  he  does  not  put  anything  of  his  own 
into  it." 

The  fact  is  that  in  Illyria  the  name  of  Rosen  was 
synonymous  with  Harpagon.  Even  in  Paris,  the 
fame  of  his  avarice  had  followed  the  duke,  and  was 
confirmed  by  the  marriage  of  his  son,  —  a  marriage 
arranged  in  the  special  agencies,  and  which  all  the 
pretty  ways  of  the  little  Sauvadon  could  not  keep 
from  being  a  sordid  misalliance.  Yet  Rosen  was 
rich.  The  old  pandour,  who  carried  his  rapacious 
and  plundering  instincts  written  on  his  profile  of 
bird  of  prey,  had  not  made  war  upon  the  Turks 
and  the  Montenegrins  for  glory  only.  After  each 
campaign  his  carriages  returned  loaded,  and  the 
magnificent  mansion  in  which  he  lived  at  the  point 
of  the  lie-Saint-Louis,  close  to  the  hotel  Lambert, 
was  crowded  with  precious  things :  Eastern  hang- 
ings, furniture  of  the  middle  ages  and  of  chivalry, 
solid  gold  triptyches,  carvings,  reliquaries,  gold 
and  silver  stuffs,  embroideries,  booty  from  convents 
or  harems,  massed  in  a  suite  of  immense  reception- 
rooms,  opened  but  once,  for  the  marriage  of  Her- 
bert and  its  fairy  fete  (paid  for  by  Uncle  Sauva- 
don), and  since  then  locked  and  bolted,  guarding 
these  treasures  behind  drawn  curtains  and  closed 
blinds,  not  risking  so  much  as  the  indiscretion  of  a 


The  Court  of  Saint- Mande.  67 

ray  of  sun.  The  good  man  led  in  that  house  the 
existence  of  a  veritable  monomaniac ;  confined  to 
a  single  floor  of  the  vast  mansion,  contenting  him- 
self with  two  servants  for  all  his  wants  and  the  fare 
of  a  provincial  miser,  while  the  great  kitchens  with 
their  motionless  turnspits  and  cold  ovens  were 
locked  up  as  tightly  as  the  state  apartments. 

The  arrival  of  his  sovereigns,  the  appointment  of 
the  three  Rosens  to  the  offices  of  the  little  Court, 
had  slightly  changed  the  old  duke's  habits.  In  the 
first  place  the  young  pair  came  to  live  with  him, 
their  own  residence  in  the  Pare  Monceau  —  a  true 
modern  cage  with  gilt  railings — being  found  too 
far  from  Vincennes.  Every  day  at  nine  o'clock,  no 
matter  what  the  weather  might  be,  the  Princesse 
Colette  was  ready  for  the  queen's  lever,  and  got 
into  the  carriage  beside  the  general,  in  that  river 
fog  which  every  morning,  winter  and  summer, 
hangs  about  until  mid-day  on  that  point  of  the  lie, 
like  a  veil  upon  the  magic  scenery  of  the  Seine. 
At  that  hour  Prince  Herbert  was  endeavouring  to 
snatch  a  little  of  the  sleep  he  had  lost  in  the  hard 
duties  of  the  night,  king  Christian  having  ten 
years  of  provincial  life  and  the  conjugal  curfew  to 
make  up  for.  In  fact  the  king  was  so  little  able  to 
do  without  nocturnal  Paris,  that  on  leaving  the  club 
—  theatres  and  caf^s  being  closed  —  he  found  a 
charm  in  roaming  the  deserted  boulevards,  dry  and 
sonorous  or  shiny  with  rain,  the  line  of  their  bril- 
liant lamps  standing  sentinel  like  fireguards  along 
the  far  perspective. 

As  soon  as  Colette  reached  Saint-Mande   she 


68  Kings  in  Exile. 

went  up  to  the  queen.  The  duke  installed  himself 
in  a  cottage-pavilion  adjoining  the  offices  and 
convenient  to  the  tradespeople  and  servants.  The 
household  called  it  the  administration-house ;  and 
it  was  touching  to  see  that  grand  old  man  sitting 
in  his  moleskin  arm-chair  among  papers,  classifica- 
tions, green  boxes,  receiving  and  settling  little 
bills,  he  who  had  had  under  his  orders  in  a  palace 
a  whole  regiment  of  clerks  and  ushers.  But  his 
parsimony  was  so  great  that,  even  though  he  was 
not  paying  on  his  own  account,  every  time  that  he 
had  to  give  out  money  each  feature  of  his  face 
contracted,  his  wrinkles  puckered  nervously  as  if 
tied  with  a  string,  like  a  bag,  his  rigid,  erect  body, 
and  even  the  automatic  gesture  with  which  he 
opened  the  safe  built  into  the  wall  protested. 
Nevertheless,  he  so  arranged  matters  as  to  be 
always  ready  and  able  to  provide,  from  the  modest 
resources  of  the  princes  of  Illyria,  for  the  inevi- 
table squandering  of  a  great  house,  the  charities 
of  the  queen,  the  bounty  of  the  king,  and  even  his 
pleasures  —  which  counted  in  the  budget,  for 
Christian  II.  had  kept  his  promise  to  himself  and 
was  spending  his  time  of  exile  joyously.  Assidu- 
ous at  all  fetes,  welcomed  at  the  great  clubs, 
sought  in  the  salons,  his  delicate,  sarcastic  profile, 
always  seen  in  the  animated  confusion  of  the  first 
boxes  or  the  tumultuous  rush  of  a  return  from 
the  races,  took  its  place  henceforth  on  the  "  me- 
dallions "  known  to  "  all  Paris "  between  the  bold 
locks  of  an  actress  then  in  vogue  and  the  distorted 
features  of  a  disgraced  prince-royal  then  roaming 


The  Court  of  Saint- Mande.  69 

the  cafe's  of  the  boulevard  till  the  hour  of  his  reign 
should  strike.  Christian  was  leading  the  idle,  yet 
fully  occupied  life  of  a  young  Gomme.  Tennis  or 
skating  in  the  afternoons,  then  the  Bois,  a  visit 
at  twilight  in  a  certain  chic  boudoir,  the  luxurious 
comfort  of  which  and  its  excessive  liberty  of 
speech  he  liked ;  then,  in  the  evening,  the  minor 
theatres,  the  foyer  of  the  dancers,  the  club,  and 
gambling,  especially,  where,  in  his  handling  of  the 
cards  could  be  seen  his  Bohemian  origin,  the 
passion  for  luck,  and  all  his  presentiments.  He 
scarcely  ever  went  out  with  the  queen,  except  on 
Sunday  to  the  church  of  Saint-Mande",  and  seldom 
saw  her  at  home  unless  at  meals.  He  feared  that 
sensible,  upright  nature,  always  intent  on  duty, 
whose  contemptuous  coldness  goaded  him  like 
a  visible  conscience.  It  recalled  him  to  his  office 
of  king,  to  the  ambitions  he  desired  to  forget ;  and, 
too  feeble  to  rebel  openly  against  that  mute  con- 
trol, he  preferred  to  flee  it,  to  lie,  to  keep  away. 

On  her  side,  Frederica  understood  so  well  his 
temperament,  that  Slav  nature,  ardent  and  effemi- 
nate, emotional  and  feeble,  she  had  so  often  for- 
given the  ill-conduct  of  that  child-man,  who  kept 
all  his  childhood  about  him,  its  grace,  its  laughter, 
and  its  cruelty  of  caprice ;  she  had  so  often  seen 
him  on  his  knees  before  her  after  one  of  those 
misdeeds  in  which  he  risked  his  happiness  and  his 
dignity,  that  she  was  now  completely  discouraged 
as  to  the  husband  and  the  man,  though  some 
respect  for  him  as  a  king  remained.  The  struggle 
had  lasted  nearly  ten  years,  although  in  appear- 


yo  Kings  in  Exile. 

ance  the  pair  were  united.  At  those  heights  of 
existence,  with  vast  apartments,  innumerable 
servants,  a  daily  ceremonial  which  widens  distance 
and  compresses  feelings,  falsehoods  like  these  are 
possible.  But  exile  was  now  to  reveal  them. 

Frederica  at  first  hoped  that  this  hard  trial 
would  ripen  the  mind  of  the  king  and  awaken  in 
him  one  of  those  fine  uprisings  which  make  heroes 
and  conquerors.  On  the  contrary,  she  saw  in  his 
eyes  an  ever  increasing  intoxication  of  pleasures, 
of  vertigo  produced  by  the  life  of  Paris  and  its 
diabolical  phosphorus,  its  temptations  and  facil- 
ities of  pleasure,  and  its  incognito.  Ah !  if  she 
had  been  willing  to  follow  him,  to  share  in  that 
wild  course  of  the  Parisian  whirlwind,  to  have  her 
beauty,  her  horses,  her  toilets  cited,  to  lend  her- 
self with  all  a  woman's  coquetry  to  the  frivolous 
vanity  of  her  husband,  they  might  still  have 
come  nearer  together.  Impossible ;  she  was  more 
a  queen  than  ever,  abdicating  none  of  her  ambi- 
tions, her  hopes,  and,  eager  from  afar  for  the 
struggle,  sending  letter  after  letter  to  friends 
"over  there;  "  protesting,  conspiring,  and  com- 
municating with  all  the  Courts  of  Europe  on  the 
iniquity  of  their  misfortune.  Councillor  Boscovich 
wrote  at  her  dictation ;  and  at  mid-day,  when  the 
king  came  down  to  breakfast,  she  herself  gave  him 
the  letters  for  the  mail  to  sign.  Sign !  parbleu  ! 
he  signed  all  she  wanted,  but  always  with  a  curl 
of  satire  on  his  lips.  The  scepticism  of  his  cold 
and  scoffing  surroundings  had  seized  him.  To 
his  first  illusions  as  to  the  shortness  of  their  exile 


The  Court  of  Saint- Mande.  71 

had  succeeded,  by  a  sudden  change  common  to 
these  extreme  natures,  a  settled  conviction  that 
it  would  now  be  prolonged  indefinitely.  Hence 
the  air  of  ennui,  of  weariness  he  showed  in  the 
conversations  by  which  Frederica  attempted  to 
rouse  within  him  her  own  fire,  seeking  in  the 
depths  of  his  eyes  an  attention  she  was  unable 
to  fix.  Indifferent,  the  chorus  of  some  foolish 
song  pursuing  him,  his  head  was  always  full  of 
a  vision  of  the  night  before,  of  that  intoxicating, 
stupefying  whirl  of  pleasure.  And  what  an  "  Ouf ! " 
of  relief  he  gave  when  he  finally  got  away ;  what  a 
renewal  of  youth  and  life  came  to  him  each  time 
that  he  left  the  queen  sadder  and  more  lonely  ! 

After  this  work  of  writing  letters  in  the  morning 
and  the  despatch  of  other  short  and  eloquent  notes 
of  her  own,  in  which  she  revived  the  courage,  the 
devotion,  near  to  failing,  of  her  friends,  Frederica's 
sole  amusements  were  the  books  of  her  library, 
that  of  a  sovereign  (composed  chiefly  of  memoirs, 
correspondences,  chronicles  of  times  past,  or  high 
religious  philosophy),  games  with  her  child  in 
the  garden,  and  a  few  rides  on  horseback  through 
the  forest  of  Vincennes,  —  rides  that  were  seldom 
extended  beyond  the  edge  of  the  wood  where  the 
last  echoes  of  Parisian  noise  died  away  and  the 
miseries  of  the  great  faubourg  ended ;  for  Paris 
caused  her  an  antipathy,  an  insurmountable  horror, 
which  she  could  not  overcome.  Scarcely  once  a 
month  did  she  bring  herself  to  make,  her  liveries 
in  great  state,  a  tour  of  visits  to  the  exiled  princes. 
Starting  without  pleasure,  she  returned  discour- 


72  Kings  in  Exile. 

aged.  Beneath  these  royal  misfortunes,  decently 
and  nobly  borne,  she  felt  abandonment  of  a 
cause,  complete  renunciation,  exile  accepted,  taken 
patiently,  habitually,  cheated  by  hobbies,  childish 
absurdities,  or  even  worse. 

The  proudest,  the  most  dignified  of  these  fallen 
majesties  was  the  King  of  Westphalia,  a  poor  blind 
man,  a  touching  sight,  with  his  daughter,  his  blonde 
Antigone ;  keeping  up  the  pomp  and  the  external 
grandeur  of  his  life,  but  occupied  solely  in  collect- 
ing snuff-boxes,  and  setting  up  glass  cases  of  curi- 
osities in  his  salon  —  singular  satire  on  the  infirmity 
which  kept  him  from  enjoying  his  treasures.  In 
the  King  of  Palermo,  the  same  apathetic  renounce- 
ment, complicated  with  mourning,  sadness,  want  of 
money,  a  disunited  household,  ambitions  killed  by 
the  death  of  the  only  child.  The  king,  nearly 
always  absent,  left  his  wife  alone  on  her  widowed 
and  exiled  hearth;  while  the  Queen  of  Galicia, 
gorgeous,  loving  pleasure  passionately,  made  no 
change  in  her  turbulent  morals  as  an  exotic  sove- 
reign ;  and  the  Duke  of  Palma  unhooked  from 
time  to  time  his  carbine  from  the  wall  and  tried  to 
cross  the  frontier,  whence  he  was  each  time 
roughly  cast  back  into  the  miserable  idleness  of 
his  life.  At  heart,  however,  more  of  a  contraban- 
dist than  a  pretender,  making  war  to  have  money 
and  women,  he  gave  his  poor  duchess  all  the  cruel 
emotions  of  a  wretched  woman  married  to  a  bandit 
of  the  Pyrenees,  whom  she  expects  every  night  to 
see  brought  back  to  her  on  a  bier  at  the  dawn  of 
day. 


The  Court  of  Saint- Mande.  73 

All  these  deposed  beings  had  but  one  word  upon 
their  lips,  a  motto  displacing  the  sonorous  devices 
of  their  royal  houses:  "Why  do  anything?  .  . 
What  good  is  it?"  To  the  active  fervour  of  Fred- 
erica,  to  her  outbursts,  the  most  polite  of  them 
answered  by  a  smile,  the  women  replied  with 
theatre,  religion,  gallantry,  or  fashion ;  and,  little 
by  little,  this  tacit  lowering  of  a  principle,  this  dis- 
integration of  forces,  affected  in  the  end  the  proud 
Dalmatian  herself.  Between  the  king  who  did  not 
wish  to  be  a  king,  and  the  poor  little  Zara  so  slow 
to  develop,  she  was  struck  with  a  sense  of  extinc- 
tion. Old  Rosen,  shut  up  by  day  in  his  office, 
seldom  spoke.  Princesse  Colette  was  only  a  bird, 
incessantly  employed  in  preening  her  feathers; 
Boscovich  a  child;  the  marquise  a  simpleton. 
There  was  always  Pere  Alphee ;  but  that  fierce 
and  rugged  monk  could  never  have  understood 
from  a  half-word  the  inward  shudders  of  the  queen, 
the  doubts,  the  fears  that  were  beginning  to  invade 
her.  The  season  also  had  something  to  do  with 
it.  That  wood  of  Saint-Mande,  in  summer  all 
verdure  and  flowers,  deserted  and  still  as  a  park 
throughout  the  week,  but  on  Sundays  swarming 
with  populace  joy,  was  now  taking,  at  the  coming 
of  winter,  in  the  gloom  of  a  damp  horizon  and  the 
floating  mist  of  its  own  lake,  the  desolate  aspect, 
without  grandeur,  of  a  region  of  pleasure  aban- 
doned. Flocks  of  crows  flew  low  among  the 
blackened  bushes  and  high  above  the  tall,  gnarled 
trees,  in  whose  discrowned  summits  the  nests  of 
the  magpies  swung,  and  the  long,  fibrous  threads  of' 


74  Kings  in  Exile. 

the  misletoe.  This  was  the  second  winter  Fred- 
erica  had  passed  in  Paris.  Why  did  it  seem  much 
longer  and  far  more  dismal  than  the  first?  Did  she 
miss  the  lively  racket  of  a  hotel,  the  stir  and  life 
of  the  tumultuous  and  rich  city?  No.  But  just 
in  proportion  as  the  queen  decreased,  did  the 
woman  begin  to  feel  her  weakness,  the  sorrows  of 
a  neglected  wife,  the  home-sickness  of  a  stranger 
torn  from  her  native  soil. 

In  the  glassed  gallery  adjoining  the  grand  salon 
where  she  had  made  for.  herself  a  winter  garden, 
a  quiet  spot  far  from  the  household  noises,  hung 
with  light  draperies  and  in  every  corner  the  green- 
ery of  plants,  she  now  sat  for  days  together  inactive 
before  the  ravaged  garden  and  its  tangle  of  leafless 
branches  defined  like  an  etching  on  the  gray 
horizon,  with  a  mixture  of  dark  and  resisting  ver- 
dure which  box  and  holly  still  preserve  beneath 
the  snow,  through  the  whiteness  of  which  their 
stiff  arms  penetrate.  In  the  three  basins  of  the 
fountain,  rising  one  above  another,  the  sheets  of 
falling  water  had  a  cold,  metallic  sound,  and  beyond 
the  tall  railing  which  skirted  the  Avenue  Daumes- 
nil,  breaking  the  silence  and  solitude  of  the  wood, 
the  steam-cars  on  the  tramway  passed,  hissing, 
from  time  to  time,  their  long  smoke  streaming 
backward  and  dispersing  so  slowly  in  the  yellow 
atmosphere  that  Frederica  could  follow  it  long 
and  watch  it  disappearing  little  by  little,  heavily 
and  without  an  object,  like  her  life. 

It  was  on  a  rainy  winter  morning  that  FJyse'e 


The  Court  of  Saint-Mande.  75 

Meraut  gave  his  first  lesson  to  the  royal  child,  in 
this  little  haven  of  the  sadness  and  reflections  of 
the  queen,  which  from  that  day  took  the  aspect  of 
a  study:  books  and  maps  spread  out  upon  the 
table,  the  full  light  admitted  as  into  a  studio  or 
schoolroom,  the  mother,  very  simple  in  a  gown  of 
black  cloth  fitting  her  tall  figure  closely,  with  a 
little  lacquered  work-table  before  her,  and  the 
master  and  pupil,  both  hesitating,  and  equally 
disturbed  the  one  as  the  other  at  this  their  first 
interview.  The  little  prince  had  vaguely  recog- 
nized the  enormous  and  fulgurating  head  they  had 
shown  to  him  on  Christmas  eve  in  the  religious 
twilight  of  the  chapel,  and  which  his  imagination, 
encumbered  with  the  fairy  tales  of  Mme.  de  Silvis, 
connected  with  an  apparition  of  the  giant  Robistor 
or  the  wizard  Merlin.  And  filysee's  own  impres- 
sion was  quite  as  chimerical,  fancying  as  he  did 
that  he  beheld  in  this  frail  little  boy,  wizened 
and  sickly,  with  a  forehead  as  lined  as  though  it 
actually  bore  the  six  hundred  years  of  his  race,  a 
predestined  chief,  a  leader  of  men  and  peoples ;  to 
whom  he  said  gravely,  with  a  trembling  voice :  — 

"  Monseigneur,  you  will  be  a  king  some  day  .  .  . 
you  must  learn  what  it  is  to  be  a  king.  .  .  Listen 
to  me,  look  at  me  well,  and  what  my  mouth  may 
not  express  with  sufficient  clearness,  the  respect  in 
my  eyes  will  make  you  understand." 

Then,  bending  down  to  the  level  of  that  little 
intellect  and  the  child's  little  throat,  he  explained, 
with  words  and  images  that  were  suited  to  it,  the 
dogma  of  divine  right,  the  mission  of  the  kings  on 


j6  Kings  in  Exile. 

earth,  between  the  peoples  and  God,  charged  with 
duties  and  responsibilities  that  other  men  have  not, 
but  which  are  laid  upon  kings  from  their  earliest 
childhood.  .  .  That  the  little  prince  could  under- 
stand perfectly  all  he  said  to  him  is  not  to  be 
supposed,  but  it  may  be  that  he  felt  himself 
enveloped  by  that  vivifying  warmth  with  which 
florists,  protecting  some  precious  plant,  surround 
the  delicate  fibre,  the  fragile  bud. 

As  for  the  queen,  bending  over  her  tapestry, 
she  listened  in  delightful  surprise  to  words  she 
had  despairingly  awaited  for  years,  words  which 
answered  to  her  most  secret  thoughts,  called  to 
them,  stirred  them.  .  .  So  long  had  she  dreamed 
alone  !  Of  so  many  things  that  she  knew  not  how 
to  say,  did  this  Meraut  now  give  her  the  formula ! 
Even  on  this  first  day  she  felt  herself  an  un- 
known musician,  an  artist  unexpressed,  before 
this  magic  executor  of  her  own  work.  Her  vaguest 
feelings  on  that  great  idea  of  royalty  took  shape 
and  were  here  summed  up  majestically,  and  yet 
very  simply,  since  a  child,  quite  a  little  child, 
could  almost  comprehend  them.  While  she  looked 
at  that  man,  his  large  features  animated  with  be- 
lief and  eloquence,  she  saw,  in  contrast,  the  pretty, 
indolent  face,  the  unmeaning  smile  of  Christian ; 
she  heard  the  eternal  "What  good  is  it?"  of  all 
those  discrowned  kings,  and  the  chatter  of  the 
princely  boudoirs.  Ah !  if  Christian  had  been 
like  that  they  would  still  be  on  the  throne,  or  both 
would  now  have  disappeared,  buried  beneath  its 
ruins.  .  .  Strange  to  say,  in  the  close  attention 


The  Court  of  Saint- Mande.  77 

she  could  not  keep  herself  from  paying,  the  voice, 
the  face  of  FJyse"e  gave  her  the  impression  of  a 
recollection.  From  what  dark  corner  of  her  mem- 
ory rose  up  that  brow  of  genius,  those  accents 
which  resounded  to  the  depths  of  her  being,  in 
the  most  secret  cavities  of  her  heart?  .  . 

But  now  the  master  had  begun  to  question  his 
pupil,  not  on  what  he  knew,  —  that  was  nothing, 
or,  alas !  so  little,  —  but  seeking  merely  to  dis- 
cover what  to  teach  him.  "  Yes,  monsieur  .  .  . 
No,  monsieur.  .  ."  The  little  prince  had  only 
those  two  words  upon  his  lips,  but  he  put  all  his 
strength  into  saying  them,  with  the  gentle  sweet- 
ness of  a  boy  brought  up  by  women  in  a  perpetu- 
ation of  his  babyhood.  He  tried,  nevertheless, 
poor  darling,  to  disentangle  from  the  varied 
knowledge  put  into  him  by  Mme.  de  Silvis,  a 
few  notions  of  general  history  as  distinguished 
from  the  adventures  of  dwarfs  and  fairies  which 
spangled  his  little  imagination,  artificial  as  the 
scenes  of  a  pantomime.  From  her  seat  the  queen 
helped  him,  encouraged  him,  lifted  him,  as  it  were, 
on  her  own  soul.  When  the  swallows  fly,  if  the 
tiniest  in  the  nest  cannot  launch  itself  forth,  the 
mother  will  give  it  the  spring  on  her  own  wings. 
When  the  child  hesitated  to  answer,  Frederica's 
look,  golden  in  those  aquamarine  eyes,  darkened 
like  the  wave  as  the  squall  passes ;  but  when  he 
answered  rightly,  what  a  smile  of  triumph  she 
turned  to  the  master !  For  many  a  month  she 
had  not  known  such  plenitude  of  comfort,  of  joy. 
The  waxen  skin  of  the  little  Zara,  his  downcast 


78  Kings  in  Exile. 

countenance  of  weakly  childhood,  seemed  to  her 
eyes  infused  with  fresh  blood ;  even  the  dreary 
landscape  widened  at  the  magic  of  those  words, 
and  let  her  see  what  there  was  ot  imposing  and 
grandiose  in  that  vast  stripping  and  baring  of 
Nature. 

While  the  queen  sat  listening,  leaning  on  her 
elbow,  her  bosom  forward,  bending  her  whole 
self  toward  that  future  in  which  the  child-king 
stood  before  her  fancy  in  the  triumph  of  their 
return  to  Leybach,  Elysd-e  quivered,  marvelling  at 
a  transfiguration  he  knew  not  he  himself  had 
caused,  and  beholding  upon  that  noble  brow  of 
polished  surface  a  royal  diadem,  twined  and 
rolled  among  the  crossed  reflections  of  her  heavy 
braids. 

Mid-day  was  striking  from  all  the  clocks  before 
the  lesson  ended.  In  the  principal  salon,  where 
the  little  Court  assembled  every  morning  at  the 
breakfast  hour,  the  party  began  to  whisper  and 
wonder  at  the  non-appearance  of  king  or  queen. 
Hunger,  and  the  vacuum  of  that  moment  when 
a  meal  is  delayed,  mingled  a  certain  ill-humour 
with  these  low-toned  remarks.  Boscovich,  pale 
with  cold  and  hunger,  who  had  just  been  hunting 
for  two  hours  in  the  underbrush  of  the  wood  for 
a  certain  late-blooming  plant,  was  thawing  his 
fingers  before  the  tall  mantel  of  white  marble  in 
the  form  of  an  altar,  where  Pere  Alph^e  sometimes, 
on  Sunday,  said  a  private  mass.  The  marquise, 
majestic  and  stiff  on  the  edge  of  a  sofa,  in  a  gown 
of  green  velvet,  was  shaking  her  head  on  her  long, 


The  Court  of  Saint- Mande.  79 

thin  neck  wound  round  with  a  boa,  in  a  tragic 
manner,  while  making  her  confidences  to  Princesse 
Colette.  The  poor  woman  was  in  despair  at  hav- 
ing her  pupil  taken  from  her  to  be  confided  to 
a  common  person  .  .  .  positively,  a  common  per- 
son !  .  .  she  had  seen  him  that  morning  crossing 
the  courtyard. 

"  My  dear,  he  would  have  frightened  you  .  .  . 
hair  long  like  that;  the  look  of  a  madman.  .  . 
It  takes  Pere  Alph6e  to  find  such  people." 

"  They  say  he  is  very  learned,"  said  the  princess, 
her  mind  wandering  to  other  matters. 

The  marquise  bounded.  .  .  Very  learned  !  .  . 
very  learned !  .  .  Did  the  son  of  a  king  need  to 
be  crammed  with  Latin  and  Greek  like  a  diction- 
ary? .  .  "  No,  no,  my  dear,  such  education  requires 
special  knowledge  .  .  .  and  I  had  it.  I  was  pre- 
pared. I  have  studied  the  treatise  of  the  Abbe 
Diguet  on  the  '  Institution  of  a  Prince.'  I  know 
by  heart  the  different  means  he  indicates  to  dis- 
cern men,  and  to  repel  flatterers.  The  first  are 
six  in  number,  the  second  seven.  This  is  order  of 
them.  .  ." 

And  she  began  to  recite  them  to  the  princess, 
who  did  not  listen,  being  seated,  sulky  and  un- 
strung, on  a  mound  of  cushions  over  which  flowed 
the  train  of  her  pale-blue  gown  made  in  the  last 
fashion,  and  looking  towards  the  door  that  led  to 
the  apartments  of  the  king  with  magnets  at  the 
tips  of  her  lashes,  and  the  vexed  expression  of  a 
pretty  woman  who  has  made  her  toilet  for  one 
who  does  not  come.  Stiff  in  his  starred  coat,  the 


8o  Kings  in  Exile. 

old  Due  de  Rosen  was  walking  up  and  down  with 
automatic  step,  regular  as  a  pendulum,  stopping 
at  one  or  other  of  the  windows  looking  on  the 
courtyard  or  the  garden,  and  there,  his  eyes 
raised  beneath  his  anxious  brow,  he  seemed  like 
the  officer  of  the  watch,  charged  with  the  sailing 
of  the  ship  and  the  responsibility  of  all  on  board. 
And  truly,  the  appearance  of  the  vessel  did  him 
honour.  The  red  brick  of  the  offices  and  the 
administration  building  shone,  washed  by  the  rain 
that  was  falling  on  the  spotless  stones  of  the  porticos 
and  the  fine  pebbly  gravel.  On  that  gloomy  day 
a  light  positively  shone  from  the  neatness  of  every- 
thing and  was  reflected  in  the  salon,  —  already 
cheerful  with  the  warmth  of  carpets  and  caloriftres, 
and  Louis  XVI.  furniture  in  white  and  gold,  with  its 
classic  ornamentation  on  the  panels  and  mirrors; 
the  latter  very  large,  a  little  gilded  label  hanging 
to  one  of  them  by  ribbon  fastenings.  In  one 
corner  of  this  large  room,  a  console  of  the  same 
period  served  as  pedestal  to  the  crown  saved  from 
wreck,  and  covered  with  a  glass  case.  Frederica 
insisted  on  its  being  there,  "  to  remind  us,"  she 
said.  And  in  spite  of  Christian's  sarcasms  —  he 
called  it  rococo,  a  relic  of  kings  gone  to  the 
devil — the  splendid  jewel  of  the  middle  ages,  its 
precious  stones  sparkling  in  their  goffered  and 
open-worked  old  gold  setting,  did  cast  a  note 
of  ancient  chivalry  amid  the  coquetry  of  the 
eighteenth  century  and  the  mixed  taste  of  our 
own. 

The  rolling  of  wheels  on  the  gravel  announced 


The  Court  of  Saint- Mande.  81 

the  arrival  of  the  aide-de-camp.  At  any  rate,  he 
was  some  one. 

"  You  come  late  on  duty,  Herbert,"  said  the 
duke,  gravely. 

The  prince,  though  rather  a  big  boy,  always 
trembled  before  his  father ;  he  now  coloured  and 
stammered  a  few  excuses.  .  .  "  Very  sorry  .  .  . 
not  my  fault  ...  on  service  all  night." 

"  That  is  why  the  king  is  not  yet  down,  I  sup- 
pose," said  the  princess,  putting  her  delicate  little 
nose  into  the  dialogue  between  the  two  men. 

A  stern  look  from  the  duke  shut  her  lips.  The 
conduct  of  the  king  was  nobody's  business. 

"  Go  up  at  once,  monsieur ;  the  king  must  be 
waiting  for  you." 

Herbert  obeyed,  after  vainly  endeavouring  to 
obtain  a  smile  from  his  beloved  Colette,  whose 
ill-humour,  far  from  being  soothed  by  his  coming, 
took  her  off  to  sulk  alone  on  a  divan,  her  pretty 
curls  in  disorder  and  the  blue  gown  rumpled  by 
the  nervous  fidgeting  of  her  childlike  hands.  And 
yet  Prince  Herbert  had  of  late  made  himself  a 
handsome  and  distinguished-looking  man.  His 
wife  had  exacted  that  in  his  capacity  as  aide-de- 
camp he  should  let  his  moustache  grow,  which 
gave  an  expression  that  was  formidably  martial  to 
his  kind,  good  face,  now  paled  and  thinned  by  the 
sleepless  nights  and  positive  fatigue  of  his  service 
to  the  king.  .  .  Moreover  he  still  limped  a  little, 
and  walked  with  a  cane,  as  became  a  hero  of  the 
siege  of  Ragusa,  a  memorial  of  which  he  had  just 
written,  a  memorial  made  famous  before  its  publi- 

6 


82  Kings  in  Exile- . 

cation,  having  been  read  by  the  author  one  even- 
ing in  the  salon  of  the  Queen  of  Palermo,  which 
won  him,  in  addition  to  a  most  brilliant  social 
ovation,  the  formal  promise  of  a  prize  at  the 
Academy.  Think  what  position,  what  authority 
all  that  gave  to  Colette's  husband  !  But  none  the 
less  did  he  keep  his  good-natured,  shy,  and  sim- 
pleton air,  especially  before  the  princess,  who 
continued  to  treat  him  with  gracious  contempt. 
Which  goes  to  prove  that  there  is  no  such  thing 
as  a  great  man  to  his  wife. 

"Well,  what  is  it  now? "she  exclaimed  in  a 
saucy  little  tone  on  seeing  him  reappear,  his  face 
quite  aghast  and  stupefied. 

"  The  king  has  not  come  in  !  " 

These  few  words  produced  the  effect  of  an  elec- 
trical discharge  in  the  salon.  Colette,  very  pale,  the 
tears  in  her  eyes,  was  the  first  to  recover  speech. 

"  Is  it  possible  !  " 

Then  the  duke,  in  a  curt  voice :  — 

"  Not  in  !  .  .   Why  was  I  not  informed  ?  " 

The  boa  of  Mme.  de  Silvis  erected  itself  and 
twisted  convulsively. 

"  If  only  nothing  has  happened  to  him !  .  ." 
cried  the  princess,  in  a  state  of  extraordinary 
excitement. 

Herbert  tranquillized  her.  Lebeau,  the  king's 
valet,  had  started  an  hour  ago  with  his  valise; 
therefore  he  must  have  had  news  of  him. 

In  the  silence  that  followed  this  explanation  one 
disquieting  thought  filled  the  minds  of  all ;  the  Due 
de  Rosen  gave  utterance  to  it :  — 


The  Court  of  Salnt-Mande.  83 

"  What  will  the  queen  say  ?  " 

Boscovich,  trembling  all  over,  remarked :  — 

"  His  Majesty  may  have  told  her." 

"  I  am  certain  he  did  not,"  affirmed  Colette ;  "  for 
the  queen  said  only  just  now  that  she  meant  to 
present  the  new  tutor  to  the  king  this  morning 
at  breakfast.  .  ."  Then,  trembling  all  over,  she 
added  between  her  teeth :  "  If  I  were  in  her  place, 
I  know  what  I  would  do." 

The  duke,  his  eyes  flaming,  turned  round  indig- 
nantly toward  the  little  bourgeoise  whom  he  could 
not  succeed  in  polishing,  and  was  probably  about 
to  read  her  a  severe  lesson,  when  the  queen 
appeared,  followed  by  FJys^e,  who  led  his  royal 
pupil  by  the  hand.  Every  one  rose.  Frederica, 
with  the  beautiful  smile  of  a  happy  woman,  which 
none  had  seen  her  wear  for  many  a  long  day,  pre- 
sented M.  Meraut.  .  .  Oh !  that  bow  of  the  mar- 
quise !  sarcastic  and  top-lofty ;  for  the  last  eight 
days  she  had  practised  it.  As  for  the  princess, 
she  was  unable  to  make  so  much  as  a  gesture.  .  . 
From  pale  she  became  crimson  as  she  recognized 
in  this  new  tutor  the  strange  young  man  with 
whom  she  had  breakfasted  at  her  uncle  Sauvadon's, 
and  who  had  written  Herbert's  book.  Was  he 
there  by  chance,  or  could  this  be  some  devilish 
plot?  What  shame  for  her  husband,  what  fresh 
ridicule  upon  him  if  his  literary  fraud  were  dis- 
covered !  She  was  rather  reassured  by  Meraut's 
cold  bow,  though  he  must  have  recognized  her. 
"  He  is  a  man  of  sense,"  she  thought  to  herself. 
Unfortunately,  all  was  compromised  by  Herbert's 


84  Kings  in  Exile. 

artlessness,  his  amazement  at  the  entrance  of  the 
tutor,  and  the  familiar  grasp  of  the  hand  with  which 
he  said :  "  Good-morning.  How  are  you?  " 

"Then  you  know  Monsieur  Me>aut?"  said  the 
queen,  who  had  heard  from  her  chaplain  the  true 
story  of  the  "  Memorial "  and  was  smiling,  not 
without  mischief.  But  she  was  much  too  kind  to 
amuse  herself  long  by  a  cruel  game,  and  said 
immediately:  — 

"  Certainly  the  king  has  forgotten  us.  Go  up 
and  tell  him,  Monsieur  de  Rosen." 

It  was  necessary  now  to  tell  her  the  truth, 
namely,  that  the  king  was  not  in  the  house,  that 
he  had  spent  the  night  out,  and  to  mention  the 
fact  of  the  valise.  This  was  the  first  time  that  such 
a  thing  had  happened  ;  and  those  present  expected 
some  explosion  from  that  proud  and  ardent  nature, 
all  the  more  because  the  presence  of  a  stranger 
aggravated  the  fact.  No.  She  remained  calm ;  and 
merely  said  a  few  words  to  the  aide-de-camp,  inquir- 
ing at  what  hour  he  had  last  seen  the  king. 

"  About  three  in  the  morning.  .  .  His  Majesty 
was  walking  down  the  boulevard  on  foot  with 
Mgr.  the  Prince  d'Axel." 

"  Ah !  true  ...  I  had  forgotten.  .  .  They  had 
something  to  say  to  each  other." 

In  these  tranquil  intonations  she  completely 
regained  her  serenity.  But  no  one  present  was 
duped  by  them.  They  all  knew  Prince  d'Axel; 
they  knew  for  what  sort  of  conversation  that  de- 
graded Royal  Highness,  that  dangerous  viveur,  was 
sought. 


The  Court  of  Saint- Mande.  85 

"  Come,  let  us  go  to  breakfast,"  said  Frederica, 
rallying  her  little  Court  with  the  gesture  of  a  sov- 
ereign, to  the  calmness  she  had  forced  herself  to 
show. 

Needing  an  arm  to  take  her  to  the  dining-room, 
she  hesitated  for  an  instant,  the  king  not  being 
there.  Then,  suddenly  turning  to  the  little  Comte 
de  Zara,  who  was  listening  with  eyes  wide  open  and 
the  comprehending  air  of  a  sick  and  precocious 
child,  she  said  to  him  with  infinite  tenderness  that 
was  almost  respectful,  and  a  serious  smile  he  had 
never  seen  before :  — 

"  Come,  Sire." 


86  Kings  in  Exile. 


IV. 

THE  KING   MAKES   FETE. 

THREE  o'clock  at  night  by  the  clock  of  Saint- 
Louis-en-1'lle. 

Wrapped  in  darkness  and  silence,  the  hotel  de 
Rosen  slept,  with  all  the  weight  of  its  heavy  old 
stones  piled  up  by  time,  of  its  massive  arched 
gates  with  their  ancient  knockers;  while  behind 
its  closed  shutters  the  muffled  mirrors  reflected 
naught  but  the  sleep  of  centuries,  a  sleep  of  which 
the  airy  paintings  on  the  ceilings  seemed  the 
dreams,  and  the  murmur  of  the  neighbouring  river 
the  fleeting  and  irregular  breath.  But  that  which 
sleeps  soundest  throughout  the  mansion  is  Prince 
Herbert,  scarcely  half  an  hour  back  from  the  club, 
worn-out,  exhausted,  cursing  his  harassing  existence 
as  a  viveur  in  spite  of  himself,  which  deprived  him 
of  all  he  liked  best  in  the  world  —  horses  and  his 
wife :  of  his  horses,  because  the  king  took  no  pleas- 
ure in  the  active  outdoor  life  of  a  sportsman  ;  of  his 
wife,  because  the  king  and  queen  living  so  far  apart 
and  seeing  each  other  only  at  the  hours  of  meals, 
the  aide-de-camp  and  the  lady  of  honour,  following, 
one  the  king,  the  other  the  queen,  were  as  much 
separated  in  this  parting  of  the  household  as  the 
confidants  in  a  tragedy.  The  princess  started  for 


The  King  Makes  Ftte.  87 

Saint-Mande  long  before  her  husband  was  awake 
in  the  morning;  at  night,  when  he  came  in,  she 
was  already  asleep  behind  double-locked  doors. 
If  he  complained,  Colette  would  reply  majestically, 
with  a  little  smile  at  the  corner  of  her  dimples : 
"  We  surely  owe  this  sacrifice  to  our  princes."  A 
hard  put-off  to  the  amorous  Herbert,  alone  in  his 
great  chamber  on  the  first  floor,  with  its  ceil- 
ing sixteen  feet  above  his  head,  the  tops  of  the 
doors  painted  by  Boucher,  and  tall  mirrors  let  in 
to  the  walls  which  returned  him  his  own  image 
in  endless  perspective. 

Sometimes,  however,  when  utterly  worn-out,  as 
he  was  this  evening,  Colette's  husband  did  feel  a 
certain  selfish  comfort  in  stretching  himself  at  full 
length  on  his  bed  without  conjugal  explanations,  in 
taking   back   his    easy  habits    as    a  bachelor,  and 
wrapping  his  head  in  a  vast  foulard  handkerchief  in 
which  he  would  never  have  dared  to  bundle  him- 
self under  the  satirical  eyes  of  his  Parisian  wife. 
No  sooner  was  he  in  bed  on  the  embroidered  and 
blazoned  pillow-case,  a  veritable  sleep-trap  of  rest 
and  forgetfulness,  than  the  nocturnal  and  foundered 
aide-de-camp  fell  into  it ;  but  as  suddenly  he  was 
dragged   out   of  it  by  the  painful  sensation  of  a 
light  passing  and  re-passing  before  his  eyes,  as  a 
shrill  little  voice  said  in  his  ear :  — 
"Herbert!  .  .     Herbert!  .  ." 
"  Hein?    What  is  it?  .  .     Who  's  there?  " 
"  Do  hold  your  tongue.  .  .     It  is  I  ...  Colette." 
It  was  indeed  Colette,  standing  beside  the  bed, 
her  lace  dressing-gown  with  hanging  sleeves  open 


88  Kings  in  Exile. 

at  the  throat,  her  hair  twisted  up  to  the  top  of  her 
head,  the  nape  of  her  neck  a  little  nest  of  golden 
curls ;  all  this  seen  by  the  glimmer  of  a  tiny  lan- 
tern, which  brought  out  the  glance  of  her  eye,  full, 
at  first,  of  a  solemn  expression,  but  suddenly  hila- 
rious at  the  sight  of  Herbert,  scared,  stupid,  the 
ends  of  his  rumpled  foulard  sticking  out  in  threat- 
ening points,  his  head  with  its  bristling  moustache 
issuing  from  his  nocturnal  garment  as  if  from  the 
robe  of  an  archangel,  though  its  expression  was  not 
unlike  that  of  a  bourgeois  braggart  surprised  in  a 
bad  dream.  But  the  laughter  of  the  princess  did 
not  last  long.  She  placed  her  night-lamp  gravely 
on  the  table,  with  the  decided  air  of  a  woman 
who  intends  to  make  a  scene ;  and,  without  taking 
notice  that  the  prince  was  still  vague  in  his  waking, 
she  began,  her  arms  crossed,  her  two  little  hands 
hugging  her  elbows :  — 

"  And  you  call  this  a  life,  do  you  ?  .  .  Coming 
home  every  day  at  four  o'clock  in  the  morning !  .  . 
Is  it  proper?  .  .  you,  a  married  man !  .  ." 

"  But,  my  dearest,"  —  he  interrupted  himself 
hastily  to  pull  off  his  foulard,  which  he  flung  out  of 
sight,  —  "  it  is  not  my  fault.  .  .  I  don't  wish  any- 
thing better  than  to  come  home  early  to  my  little 
Colette,  to  my  darling  wife,  whom  I  ..." 

He  tried,  as  he  spoke,  to  draw  towards  him  the 
snowy  wrapper,  the  whiteness  of  which  enticed 
him,  but  he  was  harshly  repulsed. 

"  You  !  as  if  it  concerned  you  !  .  .  Why,  every 
one  knows  you  .  .  .  knows  you  are  a  great  inno- 
cent, incapable  of  the  slightest ...  I'd  like  to  see 


The  King  Makes  Ftte.  89 

you  venture  to  be  otherwise.  .  .  It  is  the  king ;  in 
his  position !  .  .  Think  what  a  scandal  such  be- 
haviour is !  .  .  If  he  were  free,  a  bachelor  .  .  . 
for  bachelors  must,  I  suppose,  amuse  themselves ; 
though  as  for  that,  his  rank  !  the  dignity  of  exile  !  " 
(Oh!  that  little  Colette,  perched  on  the  tall  heels 
of  her  slippers,  to  talk  of  the  dignity  of  exile!) 
"  But  he  is  married.  And  I  don't  see  how  the 
queen  .  .  .  Has  n't  she  anything  in  her  veins,  that 
woman  ?  " 

"  Colette  !  .  .  " 

"  Yes,  yes,  I  know  .  .  .  you  are  just  like  your 
father.  .  .  Everything  the  queen  does !  .  .  Well, 
to  my  mind,  she  is  just  as  guilty  as  he.  .  .  It  is 
she  who  has  driven  him  to  this  by  her  coldness, 
her  indifference.  .  .  " 

"  The  queen  is  not  cold.     She  is  proud." 

"  Nonsense  !  are  women  proud  when  they  love? 
If  she  loved  him,  the  first  night  he  passed  away 
from  home  would  have  been  the  last.  Such 
women  talk,  threaten,  make  themselves  felt.  They 
have  not  this  cowardice  of  silence  under  wrongs 
that  stab  them  .  .  .  and  the  result  is  the  king 
spends  his  nights  on  the  boulevard,  at  the  club, 
with  Prince  d'Axel,  and  in  God  knows  what  sort 
of  company !  " 

"  Colette  !  .  .     Colette !  .  .  " 

But  try  to  stop  Colette  when  she  was  once  off! 
—  launched  in  that  fluent  speech  of  the  true  bour- 
geoise  brought  up  in  our  exciting  Paris,  where 
the  very  dolls  know  how  to  talk. 

"  That  woman  loves  nothing,  I  tell  you,  not  even 


go  Kings  in  Exile. 

her  son.  .  .  If  she  did,  would  she  ever  have  con- 
fided him  to  that  savage?  .  .  They  are  wearing 
him  out  with  study,  poor  little  boy !  .  .  At  night, 
when  asleep,  he  recites  Latin  and  all  kinds  of 
things  .  .  .  the  marquise  told  me  so.  .  .  The 
queen  never  misses  a  lesson  .  .  .  they  are  both 
of  a  pair  about  that  child.  .  .  All  to  make  him 
reign  !  .  .  but  they  '11  kill  him  first.  .  .  Oh !  your 
Meraut!  I  detest  him." 

"  He  is  a  good  fellow,  for  all  that.  He  might 
have  made  it  very  disagreeable  for  me  with  the 
history  of  that  book,  but  he  never  said  a  word 
about  it." 

"  Oh,  really !  .  .  Well,  I  can  assure  you  that 
when  you  are  praised  for  that  book  before  the 
queen  she  has  a  very  singular  smile  as  she  looks  at 
you.  But  you  are  such  a  simpleton,  my  poor 
Herbert." 

Observing  the  vexed  look  on  her  husband's  face, 
which  had  turned  quite  red,  his  mouth  puffing  out 
like  that  of  a  pouting  child,  the  princess  feared 
she  had  gone  too  far  to  obtain  the  thing  she  had 
come  for.  But  he,  how  could  he  keep  up  any 
anger  against  that  pretty  creature  sitting  on  the 
edge  of  the  bed,  her  head  half-turned  with  a 
movement  full  of  coquetry,  and  making  play  with 
that  lissome  youthful  figure  beneath  its  laces,  the 
polished  whiteness  of  her  throat,  the  enticing,  mis- 
chievous eye  between  those  lashes?  Herbert's 
honest  countenance  became  once  more  amiable,  it 
even  grew  animated  in  a  quite  extraordinary  manner 
at  the  soft  warm  touch  of  the  little  hand  that  was 


The  King  Makes  Fete.  91 

now  in  his,  and  the  feminine  fragrance  of  the  woman 
he  adored.  .  .  Ah  !  ga,  what  did  she  want  to  know, 
that  little  Colette?  .  .  Very  little,  apparently; 
simply  a  bit  of  information.  .  .  The  king,  had  he, 
yes  or  no,  any  mistresses?  Was  it  a  passion  for 
gambling  that  was  leading  him  on,  or  the  love  of 
pleasure  and  violent  emotions.  .  .  The  aide-de- 
camp hesitated  before  replying.  Comrade  on 
all  battle-fields,  he  feared,  by  relating  what  he 
knew,  to  be  treacherous  to  professional  secrecy. 
But  that  little  hand  was  so  caressing,  so  press- 
ing, so  inquisitive,  that  Christian  II. 's  aide-de-camp 
resisted  no  longer. 

"  Well,  yes,  the  king  has  a  mistress  just  now." 

Within  his  hand,  Colette's  little  palm  turned 
damp  and  cold. 

"Who  is  she,  that  mistress?"  she  inquired  in  a 
curt,  half-breathless  voice. 

"  An  actress  at  the  Bouffes  .  .  .  Amy  Fe>at." 

Colette  knew  that  Amy  F£rat  very  well,  and 
thought  her  atrociously  ugly. 

"  Oh !  "  said  Herbert,  by  way  of  excuse,  "  his 
Majesty  won't  keep  her  long." 

"Truly?"  asked  Colette,  with  an  air  of  satis- 
faction. 

Whereupon  Herbert,  delighted  with  his  success, 
ventured  so  far  as  to  catch  a  knot  of  satin  ribbon 
which  fluttered  on  the  bosom  of  the  dressing-gown, 
and  to  continue  in  an  airy  little  tone  :  — 

"  Yes,  I  am  afraid  that  before  long  poor  Amy 
F6rat  will  receive  her  ouistiti." 

"  A  ouistiti  ?  .  .     What  do  you  mean?  " 


9  2  Kings  in  Exile. 

"  Why,  yes ;  I  have  remarked,  and  so  have  all  who 
see  the  king,  as  I  do,  closely,  that  when  an  intrigue 
begins  to  tire  him  he  sends  one  of  his  ouistitis, 
P.  P.  C.  .  .  A  way  he  has  of  getting  rid  of  a  mis- 
tress he  no  longer  loves.  .  . " 

"  Oh  !  upon  my  word  !  "  exclaimed  the  princess, 
indignantly. 

"  Positive  truth !  .  .  At  the  club  we  no  longer 
say  'get  rid  of  a  mistress,  but  'send  her  a 
ouistiti.  .  .' " 

He  stopped,  nonplussed  at  seeing  the  princess 
rise  hastily,  snatch  her  lantern,  and  depart  in  a 
straight  line  from  the  alcove. 

"  Eh  !  but  ...  Colette  ! . .     Colette  !  .  ." 

She  looking  back,  contemptuous,  choking.  .  . 

"  I  have  had  enough  of  your  vile  stories.  .  .  I 
am  sick  of  them  at  last." 

And  raising  the  portiere  she  left  the  unfortunate 
roi  de  la  Gomme  stupefied,  his  arms  extended,  his 
heart  in  flames,  ignorant  of  the  why  and  wherefore 
of  the  untimely  visit  and  this  whirlwind  departure. 
With  the  rapid  step  of  an  actress  leaving  the 
stage,  the  floating  train  of  her  dressing-gown 
taken  up  and  twisted  round  her  arm,  Colette 
hurriedly  regained  her  own  bedroom  at  the 
other  end  of  the  house.  There  on  a  couch,  in  a 
cushioned  hollow  of  Oriental  embroideries,  slept 
the  prettiest  little  animal  in  the  world,  gray,  silky 
fur  like  feathers,  a  long  tail  almost  enveloping  it, 
and  a  little  silver  bell  fastened  round  its  neck  by  a 
rose-coloured  ribbon,  —  a  delicious  ouistiti  which 
the  king  had  sent  her  a  few  days  ago  in  a  basket 


The  King  Makes  Fete.  93 

of  Neapolitan  straw,  an  attention  she  had  received 
with  the  utmost  gratitude.  Ah !  if  she  had  only 
known  the  real  meaning  of  the  gift !  Furious,  she 
snatched  up  the  poor  little  beast,  that  bundle  of 
living  and  clawing  silk,  from  which,  thus  suddenly 
awakened,  two  human  eyes  shone  out,  and  opening 
the  window  toward  the  quay,  she  said,  with  a 
ferocious  gesture :  — 

"  Go  !  .  .  vile  thing !  " 

The  poor  little  monkey  rolled  down  over  the 
quay;  and  it  was  not  he  alone  that  disappeared 
and  died  that  night,  but  also  a  dream  fragile  and 
capricious  as  himself,  the  dream  of  a  poor  little 
creature  who  now  flung  herself  on  her  bed  and 
hid  her  face  upon  the  pillow  to  sob. 

Their  loves  had  lasted  very  nearly  a  year,  an 
eternity  to  that  child,  who  was  but  a  butterfly.  He 
had  only  to  make  a  single  sign,  and  Colette  de 
Rosen,  dazzled,  fascinated,  fell  into  his  arms,  —  she 
who,  until  then,  had  kept  herself  an  honest  woman, 
not  for  love  of  her  husband  or  of  virtue,  but  be- 
cause in  that  little  bird's-brain  of  hers  there  was  a 
liking  for  clean  plumage  which  had  preserved  her 
from  soiling  falls ;  and  because,  moreover,  she  was 
essentially  French,  of  that  race  of  women  whom 
Moliere,  long  before  our  modern  physiologists, 
had  declared  to  be  without  temperament,  simply 
imaginative  and  vain. 

It  was  not  to  Christian,  but  to  the  king  of 
Illyria  that  the  little  Sauvadon  gave  her  love.  She 
sacrificed  herself  to  that  ideal  diadem  which, 
through  legends  and  romantic,  frivolous  reading, 


94  Kings  in  Exile. 

she  saw,  like  a  halo,  above  the  selfish  and  passion- 
ridden  type  of  her  lover.  She  pleased  him  so  long 
as  he  found  in  her  only  a  new  plaything  prettily 
coloured,  a  Parisian  plaything  which  would  serve 
to  initiate  him  to  keener  amusements.  But  she 
had  the  bad  taste  to  take  seriously  her  position  as 
"  mistress  of  the  king."  All  those  female  figures, 
half  historic,  all  that  pinchbeck  of  the  crown,  more 
brilliant  than  real  jewels,  glittered  in  her  ambitious 
dreams.  She  desired  to  be,  not  the  du  Barry,  but 
the  Chateauroux  of  this  Louis  XV.  of  the  coast. 
Illyria  to  reconquer,  conspirators  to  be  led  at  the 
tip  of  her  fan,  dashing  attacks,  heroic  disembar- 
cations  became  the  subject  of  all  her  conversa- 
tions with  the  king.  She  saw  herself  rousing  the 
natives,  hiding  in  the  tall  wheat,  in  barns,  like 
those  famous  heroines  of  La  Vendee  whose  adven- 
tures she  had  been  made  to  read  in  the  convent  of 
the  Sacre-Cceur.  She  had  even  planned  a  page's 
costume,  —  costume  always  playing  a  leading  part 
in  her  inventions, — for  a  pretty  little  renaissance 
page,  which  would  give  her  access  to  the  king  at 
all  hours  and  enable  her  to  accompany  him  per- 
petually. Christian  did  not  particularly  like  these 
elated  dreams ;  his  own  sense  showed  him  the 
false  and  silly  side  of  them.  Besides  he  did  not 
take  a  mistress  to  talk  politics ;  and  when  he  held 
his  pretty  Colette  on  his  knee  with  her  soft  little 
paws  and  her  rosy  muzzle,  in  all  the  abandonment 
of  love,  reports  about  the  recent  resolutions  of  the 
Diet  of  Leybach  or  the  effect  of  the  last  royalist 
manifesto  gave  his  heart  a  shiver  like  that  caused 


The  King  Makes  Ftte.  95 

by  a  sudden  fall  of  temperature  or  the  frosts  of 
April  on  the  orchard  buds. 

From  that  moment  scruples  came  to  him,  then 
remorse, — the  complicated,  naive  remorse  of  a  Slav 
and  a  Catholic.  His  caprice  satisfied,  he  began  to 
feel  the  odious  character  of  this  intercourse  so 
near  the  queen,  under  her  very  eyes  in  fact ;  the 
danger  of  these  furtive,  hasty  meetings  in  hotels, 
where  their  incognito  might  be  betrayed  at  any 
moment;  also  the  cruelty  of  deceiving  such  a 
good,  kind  creature  as  that  poor  devil  of  a 
Herbert,  who  spoke  of  his  wife  with  unabated 
tenderness  and  never  once  suspected,  when  the 
king  rejoined  him  at  the  club,  his  eyes  bright, 
his  face  flushed,  that  he  came  from  the  arms  of 
Colette.  But  more  embarrassing  still  was  the  Due 
de  Rosen,  extremely  distrustful  of  the  morals  of 
the  daughter-in-law  who  was  not  of  his  caste,  very 
uneasy  about  his  son,  whom  he  suspected  of  being 
deceived,  and  feeling  himself  responsible  for  the 
whole  of  it  because  his  avarice  had  made  the 
marriage.  He  watched  Colette,  took  her  himself, 
night  and  morning,  to  and  from  Samt-Mande" ;  he 
would  have  followed  her  all  day  if  the  supple 
creature  had  not  known  how  to  slip  through  his 
clumsy  fingers.  Between  them  it  came  to  be  a 
silent  struggle.  From  the  window  of  his  office 
the  duke  seated  at  his  desk  saw,  with  great  vex- 
ation, his  pretty  daughter-in-law,  arrayed  in  the 
delightful  costumes  she  concocted  with  her  dress- 
maker, curl  herself  up  in  the  carnage,  all  glowing 
behind  the  mist  on  the  glasses  if  it  was  cold,  or 


96'  Kings  in  Exile. 

sheltered  behind  a  fringed  sunshade  on  pleasant 
days. 

"Are  you  going  out?"  he  would  say. 

"  On  the  queen's  service,"  the  little  Sauvadon 
replied  triumphantly  from  behind 'her  veil.  And 
it  was  true.  Frederica  seldom  entered  the  whirl  of 
Paris,  and  gladly  gave  all  her  errands  to  the  lady 
of  honour,  never  having  felt  the  vanity  of  proclaim- 
ing her  name  and  regal  title  to  some  fashionable 
tradesman  before  the  inquisitive  curiosity  of  the 
shop  people  and  the  customers  present.  Con- 
sequently all  social  popularity  was  lost  to  her. 
No  one  discussed  in  a  salon  the  colour  of  her 
hair  and  eyes,  the  rather  stiff  majesty  of  her  figure, 
and  her  free  and  independent  manner  of  wearing 
the  Parisian  fashions. 

One  morning  the  duke  observed  that  Colette  on 
leaving  Saint-Mand6  seemed  so  cheerfully  serious, 
and  showed  so  marked  an  increase  of  her  grisette 
type,  that  from  pure  instinct,  knowing  nothing 
(all  true  hunters  have  these  sudden  inspirations), 
he  started  to  follow  her,  and  did  follow  her  a  long 
time,  to  a  famous  restaurant  on  the  Quai  d'Orsay. 
With  much  cleverness  and  imagination  the  prin- 
cess had  contrived  to  be  excused  from  the  cere- 
mony of  the  queen's  table,  and  was  on  her  way  to 
breakfast  with  her  lover  in  a  private  room.  They 
took  their  repast  before  a  window,  quite  low,  which 
incased  a  splendid  scene :  the  Seine  gilded  by  the 
sun,  the  Tuileries  beyond  —  a  mass  of  trees  and 
stone;  near-by,  the  yards  of  the  frigate  school- 
ship  amid  the  shady  verdure  above  the  bulwarks 


The  King  Makes  Fete.  97 

of  the  quay,  where  the  sellers  of  blue  glasses 
spread  out  their  wares.  The  weather,  true  weather 
for  a  rendezvous,  had  the  warmth  of  a  sunny  day 
tempered  by  piquant  breezes.  Never  had  Colette 
laughed  so  heartily;  her  laugh  was  the  pearly 
climax  of  her  grace ;  and  Christian,  who  adored 
her  when  she  chose  to  be  simply  the  creature  of 
joy  he  loved,  enjoyed  the  choice  breakfast  in  her 
company.  Suddenly  she  spied  upon  the  opposite 
sidewalk  the  figure  of  her  father-in-law,  walking 
up  and  down  at  a  regular  pace,  as  if  determined 
on  a  long  watch,  —  a  sentry,  in  short,  before  the 
door,  which  the  old  man  knew  to  be  the  only  issue 
from  the  restaurant ;  from  which  post  he  watched 
the  entrance  of  the  fine,  erect,  and  well-girthed 
officers  who  came  from  the  neighbouring  cavalry 
barracks  ;  for  in  his  capacity  as  former  general  of 
pandours  he  thought  that  arm  irresistible,  and  he 
doubted  no  longer  that  his  daughter-in-law  had 
some  intrigue  with  spurs  and  sabretache. 

The  anxiety  of  the  king  and  Colette  was  great, 
and  was  not  unlike  the  dilemma  of  the  learned  man 
perched  on  a  palm-tree  beneath  which  yawned  a 
crocodile.  Certain  of  the  discretion  and  the  in- 
corruptibility of  the  staff"  of  the  establishment,  the 
pair  felt  sure  that  the  crocodile  could  not  get 
up  to  them.  But  how  could  they  get  out?  The 
king,  no  matter !  he  had  plenty  of  time  before 
him  in  which  to  wear  out  the  patience  of  the 
animal.  But  Colette  !  .  .  the  queen  would  be  ex- 
pecting her,  uniting,  possibly,  her  suspicions  to 
those  of  old  Rosen.  The  master  of  the  establish- 


98  Kings  in  Exile. 

ment,  whom  Christian  sent  for  and  informed  as  to 
the  facts  of  the  situation,  could  at  first  think  of 
nothing  but  making  a  hole  through  the  wall  into 
the  next  house,  as  in  times  of  revolution ;  then  the 
idea  of  a  very  much  simpler  expedient  occurred  to 
him.  Madame  must  wear  the  clothes  of  a  baker's 
boy,  and  put  her  gown  and  petticoats  into  the 
basket  she  would  carry  on  her  head,  and  reclothe 
herself  in  the  house  of  the  dame  du  comptoir,  who 
lived  in  the  next  street.  At  first,  Colette  objected. 
Appear  as  a  scullion  before  the  king !  However, 
it  had  to  be,  under  peril  of  greater  catastrophes ; 
and  the  ironed-out  habiliments  of  a  boy  of  four- 
teen turned  Colette  de  Rosen,  nte  Sauvadon,  into 
the  prettiest  and  most  jaunty  of  the  little  restau- 
rant boys  who  run  about  the  streets  of  Paris  at  the 
hungry  hours.  But  how  far  away  was  that  white 
cap,  those  shoes  in  which  her  feet  slipped  about, 
that  jacket  in  the  pockets  of  which  the  sous  of  the 
pourboires  rattled,  from  the  costume  of  the  heroic 
page,  with  pearl-handled  dagger  and  high  boots,  in 
which  she  had  dreamed  of  following  her  Lara !  .  . 
The  duke  beheld  without  suspicion  the  two  little 
cook-boys  pass  him  with  baskets  on  their  heads  dif- 
fusing an  appetizing  smell  of  warm  pastry,  which 
gave  him  a  cruel  sense  of  hunger  —  he  was  fasting, 
poor  man !  Upstairs,  the  king,  a  prisoner,  but 
relieved  of  a  weighty  anxiety,  sipped  his  Rcederer 
as  he  read  the  papers  and  looked,  from  time  to 
time,  through  a  corner  of  the  curtain  to  see  if  the 
crocodile  were  still  there. 

When  the  old  duke  returned  to  Saint-Mande  in 


The  King  Makes  Fete*  99 

the  evening  the  princess  received  him  with  a  most 
ingenuous  smile.  He  saw  he  was  successfully 
tricked,  and  he  said  not  a  word  of  the  adventure. 
It  was  noised  about,  however.  Who  knows  by 
what  cracks  in  the  walls  of  a  salon  or  antechamber, 
by  what  lowered  glass  of  a  coupe  window,  by  what 
echo  returned  from  blank  walls  to  mute  doors,  are 
scandalous  rumours  spread  about  Paris  until  they 
appear  in  the  light  of  day,  that  is  to  say,  on  the 
front  page  of  some  society  journal,  thence  to  the 
crowd  through  a  thousand  ears,  becoming  a  pub- 
lic shame  after  being  first  the  amusing  anecdote 
of  a  coterie?  For  a  week  all  Paris  diverted  itself 
with  the  tale  of  the  little  cook-boy.  The  names, 
whispered  as  low  as  was  possible  for  such  great 
titles,  did  not  penetrate  the  epidermis  of  Prince 
Herbert.  But  the  queen  had  some  inkling  of  the 
adventure,  for  she,  who  never,  since  a  terrible  ex- 
planation they  had  had  at  Leybach,  reproached 
the  king  for  his  conduct,  took  him  aside  a  few 
days  later  as  they  were  leaving  the  table,  and  said 
gravely,  without  looking  at  him :  — 

"  A  great  deal  is  being  said  of  a  scandalous  tale 
in  which  your  name  is  mixed  up.  .  .  Oh !  don't 
defend  yourself;  I  wish  to  hear  nothing  more  on 
that  subject.  .  .  Only,  remember  this,  which  is  in 
your  keeping  "  (she  pointed  to  the  crown,  its  rays 
veiled  by  the  crystal  shade).  "  Endeavour  to 
keep  shame  and  ridicule  from  touching  it.  .  . 
Your  son  must  one  day  wear  it." 

Did  she  know  the  whole  truth  of  the  adventure  ? 
Could  she  put  the  right  name  on  the  woman  who 


ioo  Kings  in  Exile. 

was  half  unveiled  by  scandal?  Frederica  was  so 
strong,  so  thoroughly  in  possession  of  herself,  that 
no  one  about  her  was  able  to  say.  At  any  rate, 
Christian  was  aware  that  he  was  warned,  and  his 
fear  of  scenes,  the  need  of  that  weak  nature  to  see 
around  him  pleasant  faces  responding  to  the  per- 
petual smiles  of  his  own  careless  indifference,  de- 
termined him  to  take  from  its  cage  the  prettiest 
and  most  coaxing  of  the  ouistitis  as  an  offering 
to  Princesse  Colette.  She  wrote  to  him ;  he  did 
not  answer,  nor  would  he  comprehend  either  her 
sighs  or  her  dolorous  attitudes,  but  continued  to 
speak  to  her  with  the  gay  politeness  that  women 
liked  in  him  so  much ;  then,  freed  from  the  re- 
morse which  had  begun  to  weigh  upon  him  as  his 
fancy  diminished,  and  having  no  longer  at  his 
heels  an  affection  that  was  otherwise  tyrannical 
than  that  of  his  wife,  he  rushed  full  speed  into 
pleasure,  caring  for  nothing  —  to  use  the  odious 
and  effeminate  language  of  the  dandies  of  the  day 
—  caring  for  nothing  but  "making  fete."  That 
was  the  fashionable  expression  at  the  clubs  in  that 
year.  No  doubt  they  have  another  at  the  present 
moment,  for  change  is  constant.  But  that  which 
remains,  immutable  and  monotonous,  are  the  fa- 
mous restaurants  where  the  thing  takes  place: 
the  gilded  and  flowery  salons  where  high-priced 
prostitutes  invite  themselves  or  are  invited;  the 
enervating  flatness  of  pleasure  degrading  itself 
to  orgy  without  the  power  of  revival.  That  which 
does  not  change  is  the  classic  stupidity  of  the 
mass  of  rakes  and  harlots,  their  stereotyped  slang 


The  King  Makes  Fete.  101 

and  laugh,  without  a  single  imaginative  fancy 
ever  slipping  into  their  world,  as  bourgeois,  as 
conventional,  as  the  other  world,  under  all  its  appar- 
ent folly.  It  is  regulated  disorder,  a  programme 
played  out  by  yawning  ennui  and  aching  joints. 
But  the  king,  he,  at  least,  "  made  fete  "  with  the 
ardour  of  a  lad  of  twenty.  He  carried  into  it  that 
hunger  for  escapade  which  took  him  to  Mabille 
on  the  night  of  his  arrival,  to  satisfy  desires 
sharpened  for  a  long  time  at  a  distance  by  the 
reading  of  certain  Parisian  newspapers,  which  give 
each  day  the  appetizing  menu  of  debauchery  in 
tales  and  articles  which  relate  and  idealize  it  for 
the  provinces  and  foreign  countries.  His  intrigue 
with  Mme.  de  Rosen  stopped  him  for  a  certain 
time  on  this  descent  to  easy  pleasure  —  which 
resembles  the  little  staircases  of  the  night  restaur- 
ants, inundated  with  light,  carpeted  from  top 
to  bottom,  descended  step  by  step  in  the  first 
stage  of  drunkenness,  which  deepens  and  comes 
on  faster  at  the  bottom  in  the  fresh  air  of  the  open 
door,  and  leads  straight  to  the  gutter,  in  the  dim 
hour  of  the  scavengers  and  dustmen.  Christian 
now  abandoned  himself  to  that  descent ;  and  what 
encouraged  and  intoxicated  him  more  than  wine 
was  the  little  Court,  the  clique  with  which  he  sur- 
rounded himself, —  noblemen,  ruined  gamblers, 
on  the  lookout  for  royal  dupes ;  journalists,  gay- 
livers,  whose  paid  reports  entertained  him,  and 
who,  proud  of  this  intimacy  with  so  illustrious  an 
exile,  took  him  to  the  coulisse  of  the  theatres, 
where  women  with  no  eyes  but  for  him,  emotional 


IO2  Kings  in  Exile. 

and  provocative,  painted  him  in  blushing  confu- 
sion, with  their  enamelled  cheeks.  Quick  to  seize 
the  language  of  the  boulevards,  with  its  fads,  its 
exaggeration,  its  vapidity,  he  soon  said,  like 
an  accomplished  gomme:  "  Chic,  very  chic.  .  ." 
"  'T  is  infect  [ugly,  or  silly]."  "  On  se  tord  [fleeced 
at  cards,  from  pigeon's  neck  twisted]."  But  he 
said  these  things  less  vulgarly  than  others,  thanks 
to  his  foreign  accent,  which  relieved  the  slang  and 
gave  it  a  Bohemian  point.  One  word  he  especially 
affected,  —  rigolo^  He  used  it  apropos  of  every- 
thing, to  appreciate  what  he  liked.  Plays,  novels, 
events,  public  or  private,  they  were  or  they  were 
not  rigolo.  This  dispensed  Monseigneur  from  all 
argument.  At  the  end  of  a  supper  Amy  Ferat, 
who  was  drunk  and  irritated  by  the  word,  called 
out  to  him :  — 

"  Hey  !  see  here,  Rigolo  !  " 

This  familiarity  pleased  him.  She,  at  least,  did 
not  treat  him  as  a  king.  He  made  her  his  mis- 
tress, and  long  after  his  connection  with  the  fash- 
ionable actress  ended,  the  name  stayed  by  him, 
like  that  of  "  Queue-de-Poule "  given  to  Prince 
d'Axel,  no  one  ever  knew  exactly  why. 

Rigolo  and  Queue-de-Poule  made  a  pair  of 
friends  who  were  never  separated ;  they  hunted 
their  game  in  couples,  and  united  even  in  the 
boudoirs -their  fates,  which  were  much  alike.  The 
disgrace  of  the  hereditary  prince  constituting  in 
point  of  fact  an  exile,  he  bore  it  as  best  he  could, 

1  Rigolo,  amusing,  comical.  Rigoler,  to  laugh,  to  divert  one's 
self ;  an  old  word,  used  by  Rabelais.  —  TR. 


The  King  Makes  Fete.  103 

and  for  ten  years  past  had  "  made  fete  "  in  all  the 
wineshops  of  the  boulevard  with  the  liveliness  of 
an  undertaker.  The  King  of  Illyria  had  an  apart- 
ment in  the  hotel  d'Axel  on  the  Champs  Elysees. 
At  first  he  slept  there  occasionally,  but  very  soon 
as  often  as  at  Sairtt-Mande.  These  explained  ab- 
sences, with  apparent  reason,  left  the  queen  quite 
calm,  but  threw  the  princess  into  black  despair. 
No  doubt  her  wounded  pride  still  cherished  the 
hope  of  regaining  that  volatile  heart.  She  em- 
ployed all  sorts  of  coquettish  wiles,  new  adorn- 
ments and  coiffures,  and  combinations  of  cut  and 
colour  in  her  gowns  that  harmonized  well  with 
the  allurements  of  her  beauty.  But  what  disap- 
pointment when,  at  seven  o'clock,  the  king  not 
having  appeared,  Frederica,  imperturbably  serene, 
would  say,  "The  king  does  not  dine  here  to-day," 
and  order  the  little  Zara's  high  chair  to  be  put  in 
the  place  of  honour  !  The  nervous  Colette,  obliged 
to  be  silent  and  to  swallow  her  vexation,  longed 
for  an  outburst  from  the  queen  which  might  have 
avenged  them  both ;  but  Frederica,  scarcely  paler, 
kept  her  sovereign  calmness,  even  when  the  prin- 
cess, with  cruel  feminine  cleverness,  slipping  hints 
between  skin  and  flesh,  tried  to  make  to  her  reve- 
lations about  the  clubs  in  Paris,  the  coarseness  of 
the  conversations  between  men,  the  still  coarser 
amusements  to  which  these  irregular  hours,  these 
habits  of  the  coulisse  led,  the  foolish  wagers,  the 
fortunes  crumbling  like  card-houses  on  the  gam- 
bling-table, the  eccentric  bets  entered  in  a  special 
book,  curious  to  look  over,  a  gilded  book  of  human 


IO4  Kings  in  Exile. 

aberrations.  But  in  vain,  the  queen  was  not 
affected  by  the  galling  of  these  pin-pricks ;  either 
she  did  not  or  she  would  not  comprehend  them. 

Once,  and  once  only,  she  betrayed  herself,  —  one 
morning,  as  they  were  both  on  horseback  in  the 
forest  of  Saint-Mande.  A  sharp  little  breeze  of 
the  month  of  March  was  ruffling  the  waters  of  the 
lake  and  driving  them  towards  the  shore,  still  bar- 
ren and  flowerless.  A  few  buds  were  bursting  in 
the  coppices  which  still  kept  the  russet  leaves  of 
winter,  and  the  horses  treading  side  by  side  a 
wood-road  strewn  with  fallen  branches  made  them 
crackle  in  unison  with  the  opulent  sound  of  creak- 
ing saddles  and  jangling  curb-chains.  The  two 
women,  each  as  good  a  rider  as  the  other,  rode 
slowly,  absorbed  by  the  calm  of  an  intermediate 
season,  which  prepares,  with  rainy  skies  and  soil 
blackened  by  the  departing  snows,  for  the  renewal 
of  all  things.  Colette,  however,  soon  began  upon 
her  favourite  topic,  as  she  always  did  when  alone 
with  the  queen.  She  dared  not  attack  the  king 
directly,  but  she  made  up  for  it  on  his  surround- 
ings, on  the  gentlemen  of  the  Grand-Club,  whom 
she  knew  through  Herbert  and  Parisian  slander, 
and  whom  she  now  dressed  out  with  the  hand  of 
a  connoisseur,  Prince  d'Axel  first  of  all.  Really 
and  truly  she  could  not  comprehend  how  any  one 
could  make  a  friend  and  companion  of  that  man, 
who  spent  his  life  in  gambling  and  revelling,  liking 
none  but  the  worst  company,  sitting  openly  on  the 
boulevard  beside  a  slut,  drinking,  like  a  coachman, 
with  the  first  comer,  and  hail-fellow-well-met  with 


The  King  Makes  Ftte.  105 

the  lowest  comedians.  And  to  think  that  that  was 
an  hereditary  prince !  .  .  Did  he  take  pleasure  in 
degrading  and  fouling  royalty  in  his  own  person?  " 

On  and  on  she  went  with  fire  and  fury,  while  the 
queen,  intentionally  abstracted,  her  eyes  vague, 
stroked  the  neck  of  her  horse  and  presently  urged 
him  on  as  if  to  escape  the  tales  of  her  lady  of  hon- 
our. But  Colette  kept  up  with  her. 

"  However,"  she  went  on,  "  we  know  where 
Prince  d'Axel  gets  it.  The  conduct  of  his  uncle 
is  as  bad  as  his  own.  A  king  who  proclaims  his 
mistresses  with  such  impudence  before  his  Court 
and  his  wife.  .  .  One  can't  help  asking  what  sort 
of  slavish  nature  a  queen  can  have  who  would  bear 
such  outrages.  .  .  " 

This  time  the  blow  struck  home.  Frederica, 
quivering,  her  eyes  clouded,  showed  upon  her  feat- 
ures, which  seemed  suddenly  hollowed,  an  expres- 
sion so  sorrowful,  so  worn,  that  Colette  felt  herself 
shaken  as  she  saw  that  proud  sovereign,  whose  soul 
she  had  never  yet  been  able  to  reach,  come  down 
to  the  level  of  womanly  suffering.  But  the  queen 
almost  immediately  recovered  her  pride. 

"  The  woman  you  speak  of  is  a  queen,"  she  said 
quickly ;  "  and  it  would  be  a  great  injustice  to 
judge  her  as  you  do  other  women.  Other  women 
can  be  happy  or  unhappy  openly ;  they  can  weep 
their  tears  and  complain  if  the  sorrow  is  too 
great  to  bear.  But  queens  !  .  .  Sorrows  as  wives, 
sorrows  as  mothers,  they  must  hide  all,  and 
bear  all.  .  .  Can  a  queen  escape  when  she  is 
outraged  ?  Can  she  seek  a  separation  and  give  that 


io6  Kings  in  Exile. 

joy  to  the  enemies  of  a  throne  ?  No  ;  at  the  risk 
of  seeming  cruel,  indifferent,  blind,  she  must  keep 
her  head  erect  to  support  the  crown.  And  this 
is  not  pride;  it  is  the  sentiment  of  our  grandeur 
that  sustains  us.  It  is  this  which  makes  us  show 
ourselves  in  open  carriages  between  husband  and 
child  when  threats  of  a  conspirator's  pistol  are  in 
the  air;  this  that  makes  exile  and  its  mire  less 
heavy ;  this  that  gives  us  strength  to  endure  certain 
cruel  affronts  of  which  you,  Princesse  de  Rosen, 
should  be  the  last  to  speak  to  me." 

She  grew  excited  as  she  spoke,  hurrying  her  words 
at  the  last;  then  she  struck  her  horse  a  vigorous 
blow,  which  sent  him  through  the  wood  in  the 
whirl  of  a  rapid  pace  that  made  her  blue  veil 
flutter  and  the  folds  of  her  cloth  habit  clap.  . 

Henceforth,  Colette  left  the  queen  in  peace; 
but  as  her  nerves  needed  soothing  and  distraction, 
she  turned  her  anger  and  her  teasing  tilts  against 
lilysee  Meraut,  putting  herself  prominently  on 
the  side  of  the  marquise,  for  the  royal  house  was 
now  divided  into  two  camps.  Elysee  had  scarcely 
any  one  on  his  side  but  Pere  Alph6e,  whose  rough 
speech  and  ever  ready  thrust  were  a  fine  support  on 
some  occasions ;  but  he  was  frequently  making  jour- 
neys to  Illyria  charged  with  missions  between  the 
mother-house  in  the  Rue  des  Tourneaux  and  the 
Franciscan  monasteries  at  Zara  and  Ragusa.  At 
any  rate,  that  was  the  pretext  of  his  many  absences, 
made  with  the  utmost  mystery,  from  which  he 
returned  always  more  ardent,  mounting  the  stair- 
case with  furious  leaps,  his  rosary  twirling  in  his 


The  King  Makes  Fete.  107 

fingers,  and  a  prayer  between  his  teeth  which  he 
chewed  like  a  ball.  After  such  returns  he  was 
shut  up  for  long  hours  with  the  queen,  and  then 
he  was  off  again,  leaving  the  coterie  of  the  mar- 
quise quite  at  liberty  to  league  against  the  pro- 
fessor. From  the  old  duke,  who  was  shocked  in 
all  his  military  and  social  notions  by  the  negligent 
dress  and  touzled  hair  of  poor  Meraut,  to  Lebeau 
the  King's  valet,  enemy  by  instinct  of  all  indepen- 
dence, and  even  down  to  the  humblest  groom  or 
kitchen-boy,  courtiers  of  Lebeau,  nay,  even  to  the 
inoffensive  Boscovich,  who  went  with  the  rest  from 
cowardice  and  respect  for  the  majority,  there  was 
nothing  less  than  a  veritable  coalition  against  the 
new  master.  It  showed  itself  less  in  acts  than  in 
words,  looks,  attitudes,  in  the  nervous  little  skir- 
mishes which  life  in  common  brings  about  between 
persons  who  detest  each  other.  Oh !  those  atti- 
tudes which  were  Mme.  de  Silvis*  specialty, — 
disdainful,  haughty,  ironical,  bitter;  she  played 
off  all  the  expressions  of  her  head  before  Elysee, 
taking  especial  pains  to  assume  an  air  of  respectful 
pity,  with  smothered  sighs  and  blank  looks  cast  to 
the  ceiling,  whenever  she  was  in  presence  of  the 
little  prince.  "Don't  you  suffer,  Monseigneur?" 
and  she  felt  him  over  with  her  long,  thin  fingers, 
making  him  languid  with  her  trembling  caress. 
Then  the  queen  would  say  in  lively  tones :  — 

"  Come,  come,  marquise,    you  will    make   Zara 
think  he  is  ill." 

"  I  find  his  hands,  his  forehead,  rather  hot." 

"  He  has  just  come  in.  .  .    It  is  the  brisk  air.  .  ." 


io8  Kings  in  Exile. 

Then  the  mother  would  carry  off  the  boy,  rather 
troubled  at  heart  by  remarks  repeated  to  her, — 
the  household  theory  being  that  Monseigneur  was 
made  to  study  too  hard ;  a  theory  that  the  Parisian 
part  of  the  household  repeated  without  believing, 
but  which  was  taken  seriously  by  the  Illyrian  ser- 
vants, the  tall  Petscha  and  old  Greb,  who  darted 
their  worst  black  looks  at  Meraut,  and  galled  him 
with  that  spiteful  service  of  antipathy  which  is  so 
easy  to  exercise  against  dependents  and  absent- 
minded  persons.  .  .  Again  he  encountered  the  pet- 
tiness, the  persecutions,  the  jealousies  of  the  palace 
.  .  .  the  same  grovelling  of  souls,  crawling  round  a 
throne,  of  which  exile  and  dethronement  do  not,  it 
appears,  rid  royalty.  His  nature,  too  generous, 
too  affectionate  not  to  suffer  from  these  aggressive 
antipathies,  felt  the  restraint  to  his  simple,  familiar 
ways  and  bohemian  artist  habits,  now  compressed 
into  the  narrow  ceremonial  of  the  house  at  those 
meals,  lighted  by  tall  candelabra,  where  the  men  in 
full  dress  and  the  women  decolleties  (seated  far  apart 
around  the  table  for  lack  of  guests)  did  not  speak 
or  eat  until  the  king  and  queen  had  eaten  and  spoken, 
ruling  themselves  by  an  implacable  etiquette,  the 
observance  of  which  was  watched  over  by  the 
chief  of  the  civil  and  military  household  with  only 
the  more  rigour  as  the  exile  was  protracted.  But 
it  sometimes  happened,  nevertheless,  that  the  old 
student  of  the  Rue  Monsieur-le-Prince  came  to  the 
royal  table  in  a  coloured  cravat,  spoke  without 
permission,  launched  himself  headlong  into  one  of 
those  eloquent  improvisations  with  which  the  walls 


The  King  Makes  Fete.  109 

of  the  Cafe  Voltaire  still  rang.  Then  it  was  that 
the  thundering  looks  he  drew  upon  himself,  the 
ridiculous  importance  given  to  the  slightest  in- 
fraction of  Court  rules,  gave  him  a  longing  to 
leave  all  and  get  back  to  his  Quarter,  as  he  had 
done  on  a  former  occasion. 

But  —  there  was  the  queen  ! 

Living  always  in  Frederica's  private  existence, 
the  child  between  them,  he  became  possessed  by 
a  fanatical  devotion  to  her,  made  up  of  respect, 
admiration,  and  superstitious  faith.  She  summed 
up  in  herself  and  symbolized  to  his  mind  all  his 
monarchical  beliefs  and  ideals,  just  as  the  Madonna 
is  the  whole  of  religion  to  a  peasant  of  the  Trans- 
tevere.  For  the  queen  he  remained ;  for  her  he 
found  courage  to  carry  on  his  hard  task  to  its  end. 
Oh !  yes,  it  was  hard,  very  hard.  What  patience 
was  needed  to  put  the  slightest  thing  into  the  little 
head  of  this  child  of  a  king !  He  was  charming, 
poor  little  Zara,  gentle  and  good.  Will  was  not 
lacking  to  him.  The  serious  and  upright  soul  of 
his  mother  could  be  divined  in  the  boy,  with  some- 
thing, I  know  not  what,  that  was  trivial,  volatile, 
and  younger  than  his  years.  Mind  was  visibly 
belated  in  that  stunted,  almost  aged  little  body, 
which  play  did  not  tempt,  and  on  which  revery 
weighed  until  it  turned  at  times  to  torpor.  Rocked 
from  his  earliest  years  —  which  to  him  had  been 
a  long  convalescence  —  with  the  fantastic  tales  of 
his  governess,  life,  of  which  he  was  just  beginning 
to  have  some  conception,  struck  him  only  through 
its  analogies  with  those  stories  where  fairies  and 


no  Kings  in  Exile. 

good  genii,  hovering  over  kings  and  queens,  helped 
them  out  of  towers  and  dungeons,  delivered  them 
from  persecutions  and  plots  with  a  single  tap  of 
their  golden  wand,  and  laid  low  ramparts  of  thorns, 
walls  of  ice,  dragons  spitting  fire,  and  old  women 
who  could  change  you  into  be'asts.  In  the  midst 
of  some  careful  explanation  given  to  him  in  his 
lesson,  "  That  is  how  it  is  in  the  story  of  the 
little  tailor,"  he  would  say;  or,  if  he  read  the 
account  of  a  great  battle,  "  Giant  Robistor  killed 
more  than  that."  It  was  this  sense  of  the  super- 
natural so  strongly  developed  within  him  which 
gave  him  his  abstracted  expression  and  inclined 
him  to  sit  motionless  for  hours  among  the  sofa 
cushions,  keeping  in  the  depths  of  his  eyes  the 
changing,  floating  phantasmagoria,  the  dazzling 
false  lights  in  the  brain  of  a  child  issuing  from 
Rothomago,  with  the  fable  of  the  play  developing 
to  his  memory  in  marvellous  prismatic  tableaus. 
All  this  made  the  serious  study  and  reasoning  now 
required  of  him  very  difficult 

The  queen  was  present  at  the  lessons,  —  in  her 
fingers  an  embroidery  which  never  advanced,  and 
in  her  beautiful  eyes  that  attention  so  precious  to 
the  master,  who  felt  her  vibrating  to  all  his  ideas, 
even  to  those  he  did  not  express.  Indeed,  it  was 
by  these  latter  that  they  chiefly  held  to  each 
other,  —  by  dreams,  chimeras ;  all  that  floated 
above  their  convictions  and  diffused  them.  She 
took  him  for  counsellor,  for  confidant,  but  affect- 
ing never  to  speak  to  him  except  in  the  king's 
name. 


The  King  Makes  Ftte.  in 

"  M.  Meraut,  his  Majesty  would  like  to  know 
your  opinion  as  to  this." 

And  Elysee's  astonishment  was  great  at  never 
receiving  questions  from  the  king  himself  on 
topics  in  which  he  was  so  interested.  Christian  II. 
treated  him  with  a  certain  consideration,  spoke  to 
him  in  a  tone  of  familiar  companionship,  excellent 
in  its  way,  but  very  futile.  Sometimes,  in  crossing 
the  study,  he  would  stop  for  a  moment  to  listen  to 
the  lesson,  and  say,  laying  his  hand  on  the  boy's 
shoulder,  in  a  tone  that  echoed  the  subaltern  out- 
cry of  the  household  :  — 

"  Do  not  press  him  too  hard.  You  don't  want 
to  make  a  learned  man  of  him.  .  ." 

"  I  want  to  make  a  king  of  him,"  replied  Fred- 
erica,  proudly. 

Then,  as  her  husband  made  a  discouraged  ges- 
ture, she  added  :  "  Will  he  not  reign  some  day?" 

"  Why  yes  .  .  .  yes.  .  ." 

And  as  the  door  closed  quickly  upon  him  (to 
cut  short  all  discussion),  he  was  heard  to  hum  an 
air  from  an  opera  then  much  in  vogue :  "  He  will 
reign  ...  he  will  reign  .  .  .  because  he  is  Spanish." 
In  short,  Elysee  did  not  know  what  to  think  of  this 
cordial,  superficial,  perfumed,  dainty  prince,  full 
of  caprices,  lounging  on  sofas  with  enervated 
limbs,  whom  he  still  believed  to  be  the  hero  of 
Ragusa,  that  king  of  energetic  will  and  bravery 
whose  deeds  he  had  told  in  the  "  Memorial." 
However,  in  spite  of  Frederica's  cleverness  in  con- 
cealing the  vacuum  of  that  crowned  brow,  and 
though  she  constantly  effaced  herself  behind  him, 


U2  Kings  in  Exile. 

some  unforeseen  circumstance  was  always  pre- 
senting itself  in  which  their  true  natures  appeared. 

One  morning,  after  breakfast,  when  they  re- 
entered  the  salon,  Frederica  opened  the  newspapers 
arriving  by  courier  from  Illyria,  which  she  was 
always  the  first  to  read,  and  presently  made  so 
loud  and  painful  an  exclamation  that  the  king, 
who  was  preparing  to  go  out,  stopped  short,  and 
all  present  gathered  round  her.  The  queen  passed 
the  paper  to  Boscovich. 

"  Read  that,"  she  said. 

It  was  the  authorized  report  of  a  session  of  the 
Diet  at  Leybach,  at  which  a  resolution  was  passed 
to  return  to  the  exiled  sovereigns  all  the  crown 
property,  more  than  two  hundred  millions,  on  the 
express  condition  .  .  . 

"  Bravo  !  "  cried  Christian's  nasal  voice.  "  That 
suits  me  famously." 

"  Go  on,"  said  the  queen,  sternly. 

" '  On  the  express  condition  that  Christian  II. 
renounces  for  himself  and  his  descendants  all  rights 
to  the  throne  of  Illyria.' " 

The  salon  resounded  with  an  indignant  explo- 
sion. Old  Rosen  choked,  Pere  Alphee's  cheeks 
became  as  white  as  linen,  rendering  his  beard  and 
his  eyes  still  blacker. 

"  We  must  answer  ...  we  cannot  remain  silent 
under  this  blow,"  said  the  queen,  and,  in  her  indig- 
nation, she  turned  to  Me>aut  who  was  making 
notes  with  a  feverish  pencil  at  one  corner  of  the 
table. 

"  This  is  what  I  should  write,"  he  said  advancing; 


The  King  Makes  Ftte.  113 

and  he  read,  in  the  form  of  a  letter  to  a  royalist 
deputy,  a  noble  proclamation  to  the  Illyrian  people, 
in  which,  after  rejecting  the  outrageous  proposition 
made  to  him,  the  king  reassured  and  encouraged 
his  supporters  with  the  emotion  of  the  head  of  a 
family  parted  from  his  children. 

The  queen  enthusiastically  clapped  her  hands, 
seized  the  paper,  and  gave  it  to  Boscovich. 

"  Quick,  quick,  translate  it  and  send  it.  .  .  Is 
not  that  your  wish  ?  "  she  added,  recollecting  that 
Christian  was  there  and  that  eyes  were  upon 
them. 

"  No  doubt  ...  no  doubt  ..."  said  the  king, 
much  perplexed,  and  biting  his  nails  furiously. 
"  That 's  all  very  fine  .  .  .  only,  you  see  .  .  .  we 
ought  to  know  if  we  can  keep  to  it." 

She  turned  round,  very  pale,  as  if  struck  by  a 
blow  between  the  shoulders. 

"  Keep  to  it !  .  .  If  we  can  keep  to  it?  .  .  Is  it 
the  king  who  speaks?" 

He,  very  calm :  — 

"  When  Ragusa  had  no  food,  with  the  best  will 
in  the  world  we  had  to  surrender." 

"  Well,  this  time,  if  food  is  wanting,  we  will  take 
a  basket  and  beg  at  doors  .  .  .  but  royalty  shall  not 
surrender." 

What  a  scene,  in  that  narrow  salon  of  the 
suburbs  of  Paris ;  what  a  debate  between  those  two 
fallen  princes,  one  who  was  felt  to  be  weary  of  the 
struggle,  his  legs  faltering  under  his  own  want  of 
faith,  the  other  palpitating  with  faith  and  ardour. 
And  how  the  mere  sight  of  them  revealed  their  two 

8 


H4  Kings  in  Exile. 

natures !  —  the  king  supple,  slender,  his  throat 
bare,  his  clothes  loose,  his  feeble  nature  visible  in 
the  effeminacy  of  his  slack,  pale  hands,  and  the 
light  curls,  slightly  dampened,  on  his  white  fore- 
head ;  she,  erect,  superb  in  her  riding-dress,  with 
its  wide  lapels  and  small  upright  collar  and  simple 
cuffs  edging  the  dark  cloth  of  her  habit,  from  which 
the  glowing  blood,  the  lightning  of  her  eyes,  the 
golden  coils  of  her  hair  came  forth  dazzling. 
Elysee,  for  the  first  time,  had  a  clear  and  rapid 
vision  of  what  was  passing  in  that  royal  home. 

Suddenly  Christian  II.  turned  towards  the  duke, 
who  was  standing  with  bowed  head,  leaning  against 
the  mantelpiece. 

"  Rosen  !  .  .  " 

"Sire?.  .  " 

"  You  alone  can  tell  us  this.  .  .  How  do  we 
stand?  .  .  Have  we  the  means  to  go  on  any 
longer  ?  " 

The  chief  of  the  household  made  a  haughty 
gesture. 

"  Certainly !  " 

"  How  long?  .  .  Do  you  know?  .  .  about  how 
long?  .  .  " 

"  Five  years ;   I  have  reckoned  it." 

"Without  privation  to  any  one?  None  whom 
we  love  being  injured  or  made  to  suffer?  .  .  " 

"  Undoubtedly,  Sire." 

"You  are  sure?" 

"  Sure,"  affirmed  the  old  man,  erecting  his  vast 
height. 

"Very  good.  .  .     Me>aut,  give  me  your  letter; 


The  King  Makes  Fete.  115 

I  will  sign  it  now,  before  I  go  out."  Then  in  a  low 
tone,  taking  the  pen  from  his  hand,  he  added : 
"  Just  look  at  Mme.  de  Silvis.  .  .  Would  n't  you 
think  she  was  preparing  to  sing  '  Sombre  Forest '  ?  " 

The  marquise,  entering  at  that  moment  from  the 
garden,  leading  the  little  prince  by  the  hand,  was 
affected  by  the  dramatic  atmosphere  of  the  salon, 
and,  arrayed  in  her  green  velvet  spencer  with  a 
green  feather  in  her  hat,  had  exactly  the  arrested 
pose,  struck  and  romantic,  of  an  opera-singer. 

Read  in  the  Illyrian  Parliament  and  published 
in  all  newspapers,  the  protest  was  also,  by  Elysee's 
advice,  printed  in  autograph  and  sent  through- 
out the  country-places  in  thousands  of  copies, 
which  Pere  Alphee  carried  thither  in  bales,  pass- 
ing them  through  the  custom-houses  as  "  objects  of 
piety  "  with  chaplets  of  olive  wood  and  roses  from 
Jericho.  Royalist  opinions  were  spurred ;  espe- 
cially in  Dalmatia,  where  republican  ideas  had 
made  but  little  way,  so  that  the  people  were  now 
moved  by  the  eloquent  words  of  their  king,  read 
from  the  pulpit  in  many  villages  and  distributed  by 
the  begging  friars  of  St.  Francois,  who  opened 
their  wallets  at  the  doors  of  the  farmhouses  and 
paid  for  the  eggs  and  the  butter  given  to  them 
with  a  little  printed  packet.  Soon  addresses  to  the 
king  were  covered  with  signatures,  and  those 
crosses  in  place  of  signatures  which  are  so  touch- 
ing in  their  ignorant  good-will;  pilgrimages,  too, 
were  organized. 

In  the  little  house  at  Saint-Mande"  there  were 
now  perpetual  arrivals  of  fishermen,  of  porters  from 


1 1 6  Kings  in  Exile. 

Ragusa,  with  black  cloaks  over  their  rich  Mussul- 
man costumes,  Morlachian  peasants,  three-fourths 
barbarous,  all  shod  with  the  opankt  of  sheepskin, 
tied  around  the  foot  with  thongs  of  twisted  straw. 
They  issued  in  bands  from  the  tramway,  where  their 
scarlet  dalmatians,  their  fringed  scarfs,  and  jackets 
with  metal  buttons  made  violent  contrast  with  the 
gray  monotony  of  Parisian  clothing.  They  crossed 
the  courtyard  with  firm  step,  but  stopped  at  the 
vestibule  and  talked  together  in  low  voices,  per- 
turbed and  intimidated.  Elys^e,  who  was  present 
at  all  these  presentations,  felt  moved  to  the  depths 
of  his  being ;  the  legend  of  his  infancy  lived  again 
in  these  enthusiasms  coming  from  afar — the  jour- 
ney to  Frohsdorf  of  the  weavers  of  the  Enclos  de 
Rey,  the  privations,  the  preparations  for  that  jour- 
ney, the  unacknowledged  disappointment  on  the 
return  —  all  these  things  came  back  to  his  memory, 
and  he  suffered  from  Christian's  indifferent,  op- 
pressed attitude,  and  his  sighs  of  relief  when  each 
interview  was  over. 

At  heart  the  king  was  furious  at  these  visits, 
which  interfered  with  his  pleasures  and  condemned 
him  to  a  long  afternoon  at  Saint-Mande.  On  ac- 
count of  the  queen,  however,  he  greeted  with  a 
few  commonplace  phrases  the  protestations  choked 
with  tears  of  these  poor  people,  avenging  his 
annoyance  with  some  droll  comment,  or  a  carica- 
ture scratched  down  at  the  end  of  a  table  in  that 
spirit  of  ill-natured  satire  that  lurked  at  the  corners 
of  his  lips.  On  one  occasion  he  caricatured  the 
syndic  of  the  fishermen  of  Branizza,  a  bread  Italian 


The  King  Makes  Fete.  117 

face  with  hanging  cheeks  and  round  eyes,  stupefied 
by  the  agitation  and  joy  of  a  royal  interview,  the 
tears  rolling  down  to  his  chin.  This  masterpiece 
circulated  round  the  table  at  the  next  meal,  amid 
the  laughter  and  exclamations  of  the  guests.  The 
duke  himself,  despising  the  popular,  wrinkled  his 
old  beak  in  sign  of  extraordinary  hilarity.  The 
drawing  finally  reached  Elysee  with  a  noisy  en- 
comium from  Boscovich.  He  looked  at  it  for 
some  time ;  then  he  gave  it  to  his  neighbour  with- 
out a  word,  and  when  the  king,  from  the  other  end 
of  the  table,  called  to  him  in  his  insufferable  nasal 
tone,  — 

"  You  don't  laugh,  M£raut  .  .  .  and  he  is  good, 
my  syndic,"  — 

"  No,  Monseigneur,"  he  answered  sadly,  "  I  can- 
not laugh  .  .  .  It  is  a  portrait  of  my  father." 

Some  time  after  that,  filys^e  was  witness  of  a 
scene  which  completed  his  enlightenment  as  to 
Christian's  character  and  his  relations  with  the 
queen.  It  was  on  a  Sunday  after  mass.  The 
little  mansion,  wearing  an  unusually  festive  appear- 
ance, opened  wide  the  iron  gates  of  its  courtyard 
on  the  Rue  Herbillon ;  all  the  attendants  were 
afoot  and  ranged  in  line  in  the  antechamber  of  the 
portico,  as  verdant  as  a  greenhouse.  The  recep- 
tion on  this  occasion  was  of  the  highest  importance. 
A  royalist  deputation  from  the  Diet  itself  was  ex- 
pected, the  elite  and  flower  of  the  party,  who  were 
coming  to  offer  to  the  king  the  homage  of  their 
fidelity  and  devotion,  and  to  consult  with  him  as 
to  the  proper  measures  for  a  speedy  restoration. 


n8  Kings  in  Exile. 

It  was  a  real  event,  long  hoped  for,  and  now  an- 
nounced ;  the  solemnity  of  which  was  brightened 
by  a  splendid  winter  sun,  which  gilded  and  warmed 
the  great  salon  of  reception  where  the  king's  chair 
was  placed  as  a  throne,  and  woke  from  the  shadows 
the  sparkling  rubies,  sapphires,  and  topazes  of  the 
crown. 

While  the  whole  house  was  alive  with  a  contin- 
ual going  and  coming,  and  the  trailing  rustle  of 
silk  gowns  everywhere ;  while  the  little  prince,  as 
they  put  on  his  long  red  stockings,  his  velvet  suit, 
and  its  Venetian  lace  collar,  repeated  the  speech 
he  had  been  learning  for  a  week ;  while  old  Rosen, 
in  full  dress,  covered  with  orders,  drew  himself  up 
more  erect  than  ever  to  introduce  the  deputies, 
filysee,  voluntarily  aloof  from  all  this  bustle,  was 
sitting  alone  in  the  schoolroom,  thinking  of  the 
probable  results  of  the  approaching  interview.  In 
a  mirage,  not  infrequent,  of  his  meridional  brain, 
he  was  beholding  the  triumphant  re-entrance  of 
his  princes  into  Leybach,  amid  salvos  and  chimes 
and  joyful  streets  heaped  up  with  flowers  —  a  king 
and  queen  holding  before  them,  like  a  promise  to 
the  people,  like  a  future  which  still  further  ennobled 
them,  and  placed  them  in  the  rank  of  youthful 
ancestors,  his  beloved  pupil,  the  little  Zara,  grave 
and  intelligent,  with  that  child-gravity  crossed  by 
an  emotion  too  great  for  a  child's  comprehension. 
And  the  glory  of  this  fine  Sunday,  the  gayety  of 
the  bells  ringing  out  upon  the  air  in  the  full  sun 
of  mid-day  only  doubled  his  hope  of  a  national 
festival,  in  which  the  maternal  pride  of  Frederica 


The  King  Makes  Fete.  119 

might  send  to  him,  above  the  head  of  her  child, 
the  blessing  of  a  satisfied  smile. 

On  the  gravel  of  the  court  of  honour  the  arrivals 
were  now  echoing  with  the  heavy  roll  of  the  state 
coaches  which  had  been  sent  to  bring  the  deputies 
from  Paris.  The  doors  of  the  carriages  clapped, 
the  sound  of  steps  died  away  on  the  carpets  of 
the  vestibule  and  the  salon,  whence  a  murmur 
of  respectful  voices  rose.  Then  followed  a  long 
silence,  which  surprised  Elysee,  who  was  expect- 
ing to  hear  the  speech  of  the  king  in  his  high 
nasal  tones.  What  was  happening?  What  inter- 
ruption had  occurred  to  the  pre-arranged  order  of 
the  ceremonies? 

At  this  moment  he  saw,  sidling  along  by  the 
wall  and  the  blackened  espaliers  of  the  wintry 
garden,  the  man  whom  he  supposed  to  be  in  the 
salon  presiding  over  the  official  reception,  the 
king,  who  was  walking  towards  the  house  with  a 
stiff  and  awkward  step.  He  must  have  entered  by 
a  secret  door  hidden  under  ivy  in  the  Avenue 
Daumesnil,  and  was  now  advancing  slowly  and 
painfully.  Elysee  thought  at  first  of  a  duel,  an 
accident;  and  shortly  after  the  sound  of  a  fall  in 
the  upper  story,  a  fall  that  shook  the  furniture  and 
hangings  of  the  room,  so  long  and  heavy  was  it, 
accompanied  by  the  breakage  of  articles  on  the 
floor,  confirmed  him  in  this  idea.  He  ran  up 
rapidly  to  the  king.  Christian's  room,  in  a  half 
circle  of  the  principal  wing  of  the  mansion,  was 
warm  and  cosy  as  a  nest,  hung  with  crimson, 
adorned  on  the  walls  with  ancient  armour,  and 


I2O  Kings  in  Exile. 

furnished  with  divans,  low  chairs,  lion  and  bear 
skins;  and  amid  this  downy  luxury  that  was  al- 
most oriental,  stood  the  originality  of  a  small  camp 
bed  on  which  the  king  always  slept,  from  family 
tradition  and  that  pose  of  Spartan  simplicity  which 
millionnaires  and  sovereigns  are  fond  of  assuming. 

The  door  was  open. 

Opposite  to  it  stood  Christian,  leaning  against 
the  wall,  his  hat  on  the  back  of  his  head,  his  face 
discomposed  and  pale,  his  long  fur  wrap  half  open 
and  showing  a  rumpled  coat,  a  white  cravat  untied, 
the  broad  white  shirt-front  creased  and  stained  with 
that  foulness  of  linen  which  marks  a  night  spent 
in  the  disorder  of  drunkenness.  The  queen  was 
standing  near  him,  erect,  stern,  speaking  in  a  low, 
threatening  voice,  and  trembling  with  the  violent 
effort  that  she  made  to  restrain  herself. 

"  You  must  .  .  .  you  must.  .  .     Come  ! " 

But  he,  very  low  and  with  a  shamed  air :  — 

"  I  cannot.  .  .  You  see  I  cannot.  .  .  Later  .  .  . 
I  promise  you." 

Then  he  stammered  excuses,  with  a  silly  laugh 
and  childish  voice.  .  .  It  was  not  that  he  drank  too 
much.  Oh,  no  ...  but  the  air,  the  cold,  coming 
out  after  supper.  .  . 

"Yes,  yes.  .  .  I  know.  .  .  It  is  no  matter.  .  . 
You  must  come  down.  .  .  Let  them  see  you  ;  only 
let  them  see  you.  .  .  I  will  speak  to  them,  I  will ; 
I  know  what  to  say.  Come  !  " 

Then  as  he  stood  there  motionless,  mute  with  a 
sort  of  torpor  which  began  upon  his  face,  that  grew 
horribly  relaxed,  Frederica's  anger  rose. 


The  King  Makes  Fete.  121 

"Understand,  I  say,  that  our  fate  hangs  upon 
it.  .  .  Christian,  it  is  your  crown,  the  crown  of 
your  son,  that  you  are  risking  at  this  moment.  .  . 
Come  !  .  .  I  beg  of  you.  .  .  You  shall  come.  .  ." 

She  was  superb  at  that  moment  with  a  strong 
will  whose  currents  from  her  aquamarine  eyes 
magnetized  the  king  visibly.  She  held  him  by 
that  look,  tried  to  steady  him,  erect  him,  helped 
him  to  take  off  his  hat  and  his  furred  coat,  filled 
with  the  vile  fumes  of  drunkenness  and  tobacco. 
He  stiffened  himself  for  a  moment  on  his  flaccid 
legs,  made  a  few  steps  staggering,  with  his  hot 
hands  resting  on  the  marble  of  the  queen's  arm. 
But  suddenly  she  felt  that  he  was  collapsing  and 
she  recoiled  herself  from  that  fevered  contact. 
Brusquely  repulsing  him  with  violence,  with  dis- 
gust, she  let  him  fall  at  full  length  upon  a  divan ; 
then  without  a  look  at  that  disordered,  inert  mass, 
already  snoring,  she  left  the  room,  passed  before 
Meraut  without  seeing  him,  walking  straight  before 
her,  her  eyes  half  shut,  murmuring  in  the  distraught 
and  dolorous  voice  of  a  somnambulist :  — 

"  Alia  fine  sono  stanca  di  fare  gesti  de  questo 
monarcaccio." 

[At  last,  I  am  weary  of  making  gestures  for  that 
puppet-king.] 


122  Kings  in  Exile. 


V. 
j.  TOM  LEVIS,  FOREIGNERS'  AGENT. 

OF  all  Parisian  lairs,  of  all  the  caves  of  Ali-Baba 
with  which  the  great  city  is  mined  and  counter- 
mined, there  is  none  more  peculiar,  of  an  organiza- 
tion more  interesting,  than  the  Levis  Agency.  You 
know  it,  all  the  world  knows  it,  at  any  rate  the  out- 
side of  it.  It  is  in  the  Rue  Royale  at  the  corner  of 
the  Faubourg  Saint-Honore,  directly  on  the  line  of 
carriages  going  or  returning  from  the  Bois,  so  that 
none  can  escape  the  beguiling  announcement  of 
that  sumptuous  establishment,  up  eight  steps,  with 
its  tall  windows  of  a  single  pane,  each  bearing  the 
emblazoned  arms,  gules,  azure,  and  gold,  of  the 
principal  powers  of  Europe,  —  eagles,  unicorns, 
leopards,  the  whole  heraldic  menagerie.  For 
thirty  metres,  the  entire  width  of  that  street,  which 
equals  a  boulevard,  the  Levis  agency  attracts  the 
eyes  of  the  most  indifferent  passer.  They  all  ask 
themselves  :  "  What  is  sold  there  ?  "  "  What  is  not 
sold  there  ?  "  we  had  better  say.  On  each  pane  can 
be  read  in  beautiful  golden  letters :  "  Wines,  liqueurs, 
comestibles,  pale-ale,  kiimmel,  raki,  caviare,  cod's- 
roes ;  "  or  else :  "  Furniture  ancient  and  modern,  car- 
pets, foliage-tapestries,  Smyrna  and  Ispahan  rugs ;  " 
farther  on :  "  Paintings  of  great  masters,  marbles, 


J.  Tom  Levis,  Foreigners   Agent.     123 

terra-cottas,  armour,  medallions,  panoplies ;  "  else- 
where :  "  Exchange,  discount,  foreign  money;  "  or : 
"  Books  and  newspapers  of  all  countries,  all  lan- 
guages ;  "  and,  in  addition :  "  Sales  or  rentals,  hunt- 
ing, seashore,  villegiatura ;  "  with :  "  Information,  ce- 
lerity, discretion." 

This  swarm  of  inscriptions  and  brilliant  heraldic 
bearings  on  its  glass  obscured  to  a  great  degree 
the  show  window,  allowing  very  little  to  be  seen 
of  the  articles  there  displayed.  Vaguely  one  could 
distinguish  bottles  of  foreign  shape  and  colour, 
chairs  in  carved  wood,  pictures,  furs,  and, -in 
wooden  bowls,  a  few  opened  rolls  of  coin  and 
bundles  of  paper-money.  But  the  vast  cellars  of 
the  agency,  lighted  from  the  street  at  the  level  of 
the  sidewalk  through  a  species  of  grated  port-holes, 
gave  an  impression  that  the  opulent  warehouses  of 
the  city  of  London  were  sustaining  the  "  chic  "  and 
the  "  fla-fla  "  of  the  gorgeous  show  window  of  the 
Boulevard  de  la  Madeleine.  Those  cellars  over- 
flowed below  with  riches  of  all  kinds :  hogsheads 
in  rows,  bales  of  stuffs,  piled-up  cases,  coffers, 
boxes  of  preserved  provisions,  depth  upon  depth, 
enough  to  make  one  giddy,  as  when  we  look  down 
into  the  yawning  hold  of  a  steamboat  in  process 
of  being  stowed. 

Thus  prepared  and  firmly  spread  in  the  full 
Parisian  tide-way,  the  net  floated  agrip  for  the 
great  and  the  little  fishes,  even  the  young  fry  of 
the  Seine,  the  most  wary  of  all ;  and  if  you  pass 
that  way  about  three  in  the  afternoon  you  will 
almost  always  find  it  full. 


124  Kings  in  Exile. 

At  the  glass  door  on  the  Rue  Royale,  lofty, 
light,  and  surmounted  by  a  carved  wooden  pedi- 
ment, —  this  is  the  entrance  to  the  part  devoted  to 
dress  and  fashions,  —  stands  the  chasseur  of  the 
establishment,  militarily  gold-laced,  who  turns  the 
handle  of  the  door  as  soon  as  he  sees  you,  and 
holds  an  umbrella  (when  there  is  need  of  it)  over 
clients  who  come  in  carriages.  Before  you,  on 
entering,  is  a  vast  hall,  divided  by  counters,  and 
wire-gratings  with  little  wickets,  forming  two  lines 
of  compartments,  regular  "  boxes,"  right  and  left 
to  the  very  end.  The  dazzling  daylight  shines 
upon  the  polished  packages,  the  carvings,  the 
correct  frock-coats  and  the  hair,  curled  with 
tongs,  of  the  clerks,  all  elegant,  handsome,  but 
of  foreign  air  and  accent.  Some  have  the  olive 
skin,  pointed  skulls,  and  narrow  shoulders  of 
Asiatics;  others,  the  American  collar-beards  be- 
neath porcelain  blue  eyes,  and  the  ruddy  flesh 
of  Germans.  In  whatever  tongue  the  buyer  gives 
his  order  he  is  certain  of  being  understood,  for 
every  language  is  spoken  at  the  Agency,  except 
the  Russian,  that  being  useless,  inasmuch  as  Rus- 
sians speak  all  tongues  except  their  own. 

The  crowd  comes  and  goes  about  the  wickets, 
sits  waiting  on  the  light  chairs,  gentlemen  and 
ladies  in  travelling  costume,  a  mingling  of  Astra- 
khan and  Scotch  caps,  long  veils  floating  over 
waterproofs,  dust-cloaks,  tweeds  in  checks  in- 
discriminately clothing  both  sexes,  packages  in 
straps,  leathern  bags  worn  in  satire,  —  in  short,  the 
true  public  of  a  waiting-room,  gesticulating,  talk- 


J.   Tom  Levis,  Foreigners'  Agent.     125 

ing,  staring,  with  the  unrestraint  and  assurance  of 
persons  away  from  their  own  homes,  and  making 
in  many  languages  the  same  confused,  variegated 
hurly-burly  which  we  hear  in  the  bird-shops  on 
the  Quai  de  Gevres.  At  the  same  time  the  pale- 
ale  and  the  Romanee-Conti  corks  are  popping  and 
piles  of  gold  are  rolling  about  on  the  counters. 
Also  an  interminable  ringing  is  going  on,  whistles 
descend  through  the  speaking  tubes,  plans  of 
houses  are  being  unrolled,  scales  and  chords  are 
tried  on  a  piano,  while  around  an  enormous  car- 
bon photograph  a  whole  tribe  of  Samoyeds  are 
making  exclamations. 

From  one  box  to  another  the  clerks  are  tossing 
information,  a  row  of  figures,  the  name  of  a  person 
or  street,  all  smiling,  eagerly  polite;  till  suddenly 
they  become  majestic,  icy,  indifferent,  with  coun- 
tenances completely  detached  from  the  affairs  of 
this  globe,  when  some  unfortunate,  distracted  one, 
rejected  already  from  wicket  to  wicket,  leans  down 
to  speak  to  them,  in  a  low  voice,  of  a  certain  mys- 
terious thing,  which  seems  to  fill  them  with  as- 
tonishment. Sometimes,  weary  of  being  looked 
at  like  a  waterspout  or  a  meteorite,  the  man 
becomes  impatient  and  asks  to  see  J.  Tom  Levis 
himself,  who  will,  undoubtedly,  understand  the  mat- 
ter. On  which  he  is  told,  with  a  superior  smile 
that  J.  Tom  Levis  is  busy  .  .  .  J.  Tom  Levis  has 
company  .  .  .  not  paltry  little  affairs  like  yours, 
and  nobodies  like  you,  my  good  man !  .  .  .  Here, 
look  down  there,  at  the  end  of  the  hall.  .  .  A  door 
opena  J.  Tom  Levis  appears  for  a  second,  more 


126  Kings  in  Exile. 

majestic  in  himself  alone  than  the  whole  of  his 
staff;  majestic  in  his  rounded  paunch,  majestic  by 
his  polished  cranium  shining  like  the  floor  of  his 
agency,  by  the  tipping  back  of  his  small  head, 
his  fifteen-foot  glance,  the  despotic  gesture  of  his 
short  arm,  and  the  solemnity  with  which  he  de- 
mands, in  a  very  loud  voice  and  his  insular  accent, 
whether  "  the  purchase  of  his  Royal  Highness 
the  Prince  of  Wales  has  been  sent  to  him,"  while 
with  one  hand  he  holds  the  door  of  his  cabinet 
hermetically  closed  behind  him,  to  give  the  idea 
that  the  august  personage  who  is  with  him  is  one 
of  those  who  must  not  be  disturbed  on  any  con- 
sideration. Needless  to  say  that  the  Prince  of 
Wales  never  came  to  the  agency,  and  there  was 
not  the  very  smallest  parcel  to  send  to  him  ;  but 
you  can  imagine  the  effect  of  that  name  on  the 
crowd  in  the  counting-room  and  the  solitary  client 
in  the  cabinet,  to  whom  Tom  had  just  said :  "  Ex- 
cuse me  .  .  .  one  moment.  .  .  A  little  inquiry  to 
make." 

All  trickery !  trickery !  There  was  no  more  a 
Prince  of  Wales  behind  the  door  of  the  cabinet 
than  there  was  raki  or  kiimmel  in  the  queer  bottles 
in  the  window,  or  beer,  English  or  Viennese,  in  the 
rows  of  hogsheads  in  the  cellar;  no  more  than 
there  was  merchandise  in  those  emblazoned,  gilded, 
and  varnished  carts,  marked  J.  T.  L.,  which  passed 
at  a  gallop  (all  the  more  rapidly  because  empty) 
through  the  finest  quarters  of  Paris  —  a  perambu- 
lating advertisement,  noisily  rattling  the  pavement 
with  the  frantic  activity  that  characterized  both 


J.   Tom  Levis,  Foreigiurs   Agent.     127 

man  and  beast  at  Tom  Levis's  agency.  If  a  poor 
devil,  intoxicated  by  the  sight  of  all  that  gold,  had 
thrust  his  fist  through  the  window  and  greedily 
plunged  a  bleeding  hand  into  those  wooden  bowls, 
he  would  have  pulled  it  back  full  of  counters;  if  he 
had  snatched  that  enormous  bundle  of  banknotes 
he  would  have  carried  off  a  bill  of  twenty-five 
francs  at  the  top  of  a  pile  of  bubble-paper. 
Nothing  in  the  show-cases,  nothing  in  the  cellars, 
nothing,  nothing,  not  so  much  as  that!  .  .  But 
how  about  the  port-wine  those  Englishmen  tasted ; 
and  the  money  that  boyard  obtained  for  his  roubles ; 
and  that  little  bronze  undoubtedly  packed  up  for  a 
Greek  of  the  isles  ?  Oh  !  good  heavens !  nothing 
simpler.  The  English  beer  came  from  the  nearest 
tavern ;  the  gold  from  a  money-changer  on  the 
boulevard ;  the  bronze  from  that  shop  of  "  So 
and  So"  in  the  Ruedu  Quatre-Septembre.  'Twas 
merely  the  affair  of  an  errand  quickly  done  by  two 
or  three  employes  always  waiting  in  the  cellar  for 
orders  transmitted  down  the  tubes. 

Going  out  by  the  courtyard  of  the  next  house 
they  were  back  in  a  few  minutes,  emerging  by 
the  winding  stairway  with  its  carved  baluster  and 
crystal  post-knob;  and  then,  behold  the  required 
article,  guaranteed  and  ticketed  J.  T.  L.  And 
don't  feel  obliged  to  take  it,  prince ;  if  it  does  not 
suit  you,  you  can  change  it.  The  cellars  of  the 
Agency  are  well  supplied.  Things  are  a  little 
dearer  than  elsewhere,  perhaps  even  double  and 
treble,  but  is  n't  that  much  better  than  going  from 
shop  to  shop  where  they  don't  understand  a  word 


128  Kings  in  Exile. 

you  say,  in  spite  of  the  promise  in  the  window  of 
"  English  spoken"  or  mann  spricht  Deutsch,  of 
those  boulevard  shops,  where  a  foreigner,  sur- 
rounded and  circumvented,  really  gets  nothing 
but  the  dregs  of  the  boxes,  the  shelved  and 
worthless  articles,  that  refuse  of  Paris,  that  deficit 
on  the  ledger  of  "things  out  of  fashion"  —  the 
show  of  last  year,  more  faded  and  tarnished  by 
its  date  than  by  the  sun  and  dust  of  its  exhibi- 
tion? Oh!  that  Parisian  shopkeeper !  obsequious 
and  pertinacious,  disdainful  and  adhesive;  that's 
enough,  the  foreigner  wants  no  more  of  him, 
weary  at  last  of  being  so  ferociously  speculated 
upon ;  and  not  only  by  the  shopkeeper  but  by  the 
hotel  in  which  he  sleeps,  the  restaurant  where  he 
eats,  the  cab  which  he  hails  in  the  street,  the 
seller  of  tickets  who  sends  him  to  yawn  in  empty 
theatres.  At  the  Levis  place,  that  ingenious 
agency  where  foreigners  find  all  they  can  desire, 
you  are  at  least  sure  of  never  being  cheated,  for  J. 
Tom  Levis  is  an  Englishman,  and  the  commercial 
honesty  of  Englishmen  is  known  to  both  hemi- 
spheres. 

English,  Tom  Levis  is,  beyond  the  possibility  of 
being  more  so,  from  the  square  toes  of  his  Quaker 
shoes  to  his  long  frock-coat  descending  on  his 
green  checked  trousers,  and  his  tall  hat  with  its 
infinitesimal  brim,  that  sets  off  his  chubby,  ruddy, 
good-natured  visage.  Albion's  honesty  can  be 
read  on  that  skin  fed  on  beefsteaks,  that  mouth 
stretching  from  ear  to  ear,  the  silky  blondness  of 
those  uneven  whiskers  —  uneven  from  a  trick  their 


J.   Tom  Levis  >  Foreigners   Agent.     129 

owner  has  of  chewing  one  (always  the  same)  in 
moments  of  perplexity ;  that  insular  honesty  may 
also  be  divined  in  the  pudgy  hand  with  its  fingers 
showing  a  reddish  down  and  laden  with  rings. 
Honest  also  seems  the  glance  from  behind  a  large 
pair  of  spectacles  in  slender  gold  frames ;  so 
honest  that  when  it  happens  that  Tom  Levis  lies 
—  even  the  best  of  us  are  liable  to  it  —  the  pupils, 
by  a  curious  nervous  spasm  look  inward  to  each 
other  like  the  little  twirls  in  the  perspective  of  a 
gyroscope. 

What  completes  the  Anglican  physiognomy  of 
J.  Tom  Levis  is  his  cab,  his  hansom,  the  first 
vehicle  of  the  kind  ever  seen  in  Paris,  the  natural 
shell  of  this  original  being.  Has  he  some  rather 
complicated  affair  on  hand,  or  one  of  those  mo- 
ments that  come  in  all  traffic,  when  a  man  feels 
himself  nipped,  cornered,  —  "I  '11  take  the  cab," 
says  Tom ;  and  he  is  sure  to  find  within  it  some 
idea.  He  combines,  he  weighs,  he  comments  to 
himself,  while  the  Parisians  see,  rolling  along  in 
that  transparent  case  on  wheels,  the  silhouette 
of  an  absorbed  man,  chewing  his  right  whisker 
energetically.  It  is  in  the  cab  that  he  invented 
his  finest  strokes  of  business,  his  close-of-the- 
empire  strokes  !  Ah  !  those  were  the  good  times  ! 
Paris  abounded  in  foreigners,  not  only  travelling 
foreigners,  but  a  settlement  of  exotic  fortunes, 
eager  for  feasts  and  merry-makings.  We  had 
Hussein-Bey  the  Turk,  and  Mehemet-Pacha  the 
Egyptian,  two  celebrated  fezes,  on  the  lake;  and 
the  Princesse  de  Verkatcheffs,  who  was  throwing 

9 


130  Kings  in  Exile. 

all  the  gold  of  the  Ural  mountains  through  the 
fourteen  windows  of  her  first-floor  apartment  on 
the  Avenue  Malesherbes ;  and  the  American  Berg- 
son,  who  squandered  the  enormous  revenues  of  his 
petroleum  mines  in  Paris  (Bergson  has  since  then 
recovered  his  wealth) ;  together  with  nabobs, 
swarms  of  nabobs  of  all  colours,  yellows,  browns, 
reds,  variegating  the  boulevards  and  theatres, 
hurrying  to  spend,  to  enjoy,  as  if  they  foresaw  that 
they  would  have  to  vacate  that  great  merry 
junketing-place  before  the  terrible  explosion  which 
was  soon  to  burst  the  roofs  and  break  the  mirrors 
and  the  windows. 

Consider  that  J.  Tom  Levis  was  the  indispensa- 
able  intermediary  of  all  these  pleasures ;  that  not 
a  louis  was  changed  without  his  having  previously 
pared  it,  and  also  that  to  his  foreign  customers 
were  added  certain  Parisian  bon  vivants  of  the 
period,  lovers  of  rare  game,  poachers  on  private 
preserves,  who  came  to  friend  Tom  as  to  the 
shrewdest  and  ablest  of  agents ;  and  also  because 
their  secrets  seemed  to  them  safer  behind  his 
barbarous  French  and  his  difficulty  of  elocution. 
The  monogram  of  J.  T.  L.  sealed  all  the  scanda- 
lous tales  of  the  close  of  the  empire.  It  was  in  the 
name  of  J.  Tom  Levis  that  the  lower  stage-box 
No.  9  at  the  Op6ra-Comique  was  always  taken 
when  the  Baronne  Mils  came  for  an  hour  to  hear 
her  tenorino,  carrying  away  with  her  after  the 
cavatina,  in  the  lace  of  her  bosom,  his  handker- 
chief steeped  in  perspiration  and  whitening.  In 
the  name  of  J.  Tom  Levis  was  leased  the  little 


J.   Tom  Levis,  Foreigners   Agent.     131 

hotel  of  the  Avenue  de  Clichy,  half  and  half  (with- 
out their  being  aware  of  it)  and  for  the  same 
woman,  to  the  brothers  Sismondo,  two  bankers, 
partners,  unable  to  leave  their  counting-room  at 
the  same  hour.  Ah !  the  books  of  the  Agency 
at  that  period !  —  what  fine  romances  in  a  few 
lines ! 

"  House  with  two  entrances :  on  the  road  to 
Saint-Cloud.  Rent,  furniture,  indemnity  to  lessee 
...  so  much,"  and  below  it :  "  Commission  to 
general  ...  so  much." 

"  Country-house  at  Petit- Valtin,  near  Plom- 
bieres.  Garden,  coachhouse,  two  entrances,  in- 
demnity to  lessee  ...  so  much." 

And  invariably :  "  Commission  to  general  ...  so 
much."  That  general  had  a  good  place  on  the 
books  of  the  Agency. 

If  Tom  enriched  himself  in  those  days  he  spent 
as  largely,  —  not  in  play,  nor  in  horses,  nor  women ; 
simply  to  satisfy  the  caprices  of  an  untutored  child 
or  savage,  of  the  silliest,  most  ridiculous  imagina- 
tion ever  seen,  which  allowed  no  interval  between 
the  dream  and  its  realization.  Once  it  was  an 
avenue  of  acacias  which  he  wanted  at  the  end  of 
his  property  at  Courbevoie ;  and  as  trees  are  long 
in  growing,  for  one  whole  week  were  seen  along 
the  shores  of  the  Seine  (very  bare  at  that  spot) 
the  slow  defiling  of  huge  carts  bearing  each  its 
acacia,  the  feathery  green  branches  of  which,  nod- 
ding to  the  movement  of  the  wheels,  threw  their 
quivering  shadows  on  the  water.  The  suburban 
property,  on  which  J.  Tom  Levis  lived  all  the  year 


Kings  in  Exile. 

round,  after  the  manner  of  the  great  London 
merchants,  beginning  as  a  mere  box  with  only  a 
ground-floor  and  garret,  became  to  him  in  the 
end  a  source  of  monstrous  expense.  His  business 
prospered  and  grew;  proportionally  he  enlarged 
his  property;  and  from  building  to  building,  pur- 
chase after  purchase,  he  came  at  last  to  possess 
a  park  made  up  of  annexed  lands,  fields  under 
culture,  and  scraps  of  forest ;  a  singular  property 
on  which  his  tastes  revealed  themselves,  his  am- 
bitions, his  English  eccentricity,  deformed  and 
dwarfed  by  bourgeois  ideas  and  attempts  at  art 
that  were  failures.  Along  this  very  ordinary 
house,  above  which  upper  storeys  had  been  visibly 
added,  lay  an  Italian  terrace  with  marble  balusters, 
flanked  by  two  gothic  towers,  and  communicating 
by  a  covered  bridge  with  another  building,  pre- 
tending to  be  a  chalet,  with  open-work  balconies 
swathed  in  ivy.  All  this  in  painted  stucco  and 
brick,  looking  like  a  Black  Forest  toy,  with  a 
wealth  of  towers,  battlements,  weather-vanes,  bal- 
conies, parapets;  and,  in  the  park,  a  bristling  of 
kiosks  and  belvederes,  a  shimmering  of  greenhouses 
and  fountains,  the  black  bastion  of  an  immense 
reservoir  in  which  to  raise  water,  topped  by  a  real 
windmill,  the  wings  of  which,  sensitive  to  every 
breeze,  clacked  and  turned  with  an  endless  grind- 
ing of  their  axle. 

Certainly  along  the  narrow  space  traversed  by 
the  tramways  of  the  Parisian  suburbs  many  a  bur- 
lesque villa  defiles  before  the  windows  of  the  cars, 
like  fantastic  nightmares,  the  effort  of  the  escaping 


J.   Tom  Levts,  Foreigners    Agent.     133 

and  gambolling  shopkeeping  brain.  But  none  is 
comparable  to  the  Folly  of  Tom  Levis ;  unless  it 
be  the  villa  of  his  neighbour  Spricht,  the  great 
Spricht,  the  ladies'  dressmaker.  That  gorgeous 
personage  is  in  Paris  only  during  his  business 
hours,  namely,  the  three  hours  in  which  he  gives 
his  consultations  on  coquetry  in  his  grand  office 
on  the  boulevard ;  after  which,  he  instantly  returns 
to  his  house  at  Courbevoie.  The  secret  of  this 
forced  retreat  is  that  dear  Spricht,  "  dear  "  to  all 
ladies,  while  he  possesses  in  his  drawers,  among 
marvellous  patterns  of  his  Lyonnese  fabrics,  speci- 
mens of  flowing  handwriting,  dainty  script  from 
the  best  gloved  hands  in  Paris,  is  forced  to  con- 
fine himself  to  an  intimacy  of  correspondence,  not 
being  received  in  any  of  the  houses  he  gowns, 
while  his  close  relations  with  them  have  spoilt,  for 
him,  his  relations  with  the  commercial  world  to 
which  he  belongs.  Consequently  he  lives  much 
retired,  surrounded,  like  all  parvenus,  by  a  posse 
of  poor  relations,  and  devoting  his  wealth  to  enter- 
taining them  royally.  His  only  amusement,  the 
necessary  fillip  to  this  life  of  a  retired  outcast,  is 
the  neighbourhood  and  rivalry  of  Tom  Levis,  the 
hatred  and  contempt  they  reciprocally  vow  to  each 
other,  without  knowing  why,  which  latter  fact  of 
course  renders  all  reconciliation  impossible. 

When  Spricht  puts  up  a  tower  —  Spricht  is 
German,  he  likes  the  romantic,  castles,  valleys, 
ruins,  he  has  the  passion  of  the  middle  ages  — 
instantly  J.  Tom  Levis  builds  a  veranda.  When 
Tom  pulls  down  a  wall,  Spricht  cuts  down  his 


134  Kings  in  Exile. 

hedges.  There  is  a  tale  of  a  pavilion  built  by  Tom 
which  interfered  with  Spricht's  view  towards  Saint- 
Cloud.  The  dressmaker  on  that  put  a  gallery  to 
his  pigeon-house.  The  other  retorted  by  a  second 
story.  Spricht  was  not  beaten  yet,  and  the  two 
edifices,  with  a  great  accumulation  of  stones  and 
workmen,  continued  their  ascension  until  one  fine 
night  they  were  toppled  over  by  the  wind,  without 
the  least  trouble,  because  of  the  flimsiness  of  their 
construction.  Spricht,  on  his  return  from  a  trip 
to  Italy,  brought  back  a  Venetian  gondola,  a  real 
gondola,  which  he  installed  in  the  little  port  at  the 
foot  of  his  property ;  a  week  later,  pft !  pft !  a 
pretty  little  steam-yacht,  with  sails  also,  was  moored 
at  Tom's  quay,  churning  in  the  water  the  reflected 
towers,  roofs,  and  battlements  of  his  villa. 

To  keep  up  such  a  style  of  living,  it  was  neces- 
sary that  the  empire  should  continue  forever,  and 
its  last  hour  had  come.  The  war,  the  siege,  the 
departure  of  foreigners,  were  an  utter  disaster  to 
the  two  traders ;  especially  to  Tom  Levis,  whose 
property  was  completely  devastated  by  the  inva- 
sion, while  that  of  Spricht  was  spared.  But  peace 
restored,  the  struggle  between  the  two  rivals  began 
again  more  furiously  than  ever,  —  this  time  with 
inequalities  of  wealth ;  the  man  of  fashions  having 
recovered  all  his  customers,  while  poor  Tom  Levis 
was  still  expecting  vainly  the  return  of  his.  The 
sign  "  Information,  celerity,  discretion"  produced 
nothing,  or  next  to  nothing ;  the  mysterious  gen- 
eral no  longer  received  his  clandestine  fee  from 
the  strong-box  of  the  Agency.  Any  other  man 


J.   Tom  Levis,  Foreigners   Agent.     135 

in  Tom's  place  would  have  retrenched,  but  that 
devil  of  a  fellow  had  invincible  habits  of  extrava- 
gance, something  in  his  hands  that  prevented  them 
from  closing.  And  then,  Spricht  was  there,  lugu- 
brious since  the  "  events,"  declaring  that  the  end 
of  the  world  was  at  hand,  and  building  at  the 
end  of  his  park  a  miniature  of  the  ruins  of  the 
Hotel  de  Ville,  with  its  crumbling  walls  blackened 
by  flames.  On  Sunday  evenings  these  ruins  were 
illuminated  by  Bengal  lights  and  all  the  Sprichts 
lamented  around  them.  It  was  sinister.  J.  Torn 
Levis,  on  the  contrary,  becoming  republican  out 
of  hatred  to  his  rival,  feted  regenerated  France, 
organized  jousts,  regattas,  crowned  "  La  Rosiere," 
and  at  one  of  these  coronations,  in  a  gush  of 
expansive  joy,  carried  off,  one  summer's  evening, 
the  band  from  the  Champs  Elysees  (at  the  concert 
hour),  and  brought  it  on  the  yacht,  all  sails  spread, 
to  Courbevoie,  where  it  played  upon  the  river. 

Debts  accumulated  at  this  rate ;  but  the  English- 
man did  not  disturb  himself  for  that.  No  one 
knew  better  than  he  how  to  disconcert  creditors 
by  mere  force  of  coolness  and  impudent  majesty. 
No  one  —  not  even  the  clerks  of  the  Agency,  well- 
trained  as  they  were  —  had  his  manner  of  scruti- 
nizing bills  curiously,  as  if  they  were  palimpsests, 
and  tossing  them  into  a  drawer  with  a  superior 
air ;  no  one  had  his  methods  to  avoid  payment, 
and  to  gain  time.  Time !  It  was  on  that  that 
Tom  Levis  counted  to  bring  him  some  fruitful 
enterprise,  what  he  called,  in  the  figurative  slang 
of  his  bohemia  of  money,  "  a  grand  stroke."  But 


136  Kings  in  Exile. 

in  vain  did  he  take  to  his  cab,  in  vain  did  he  course 
through  Paris  feverishly,  eyes  on  the  watch,  teeth 
long,  scenting,  expecting  prey  —  years  went  by  and 
still  the  "  grand  stroke  "  did  not  present  itself. 

One  afternoon  when  the  Agency  swarmed  with 
people,  a  tall  young  man  with  a  languid,  haughty 
manner,  a  mocking  eye,  a  delicate  moustache  on 
the  rather  full  whiteness  of  a  pretty  face,  appeared 
before  the  principal  wicket  and  asked  for  Tom  Levis. 
The  clerk,  misled  by  the  cavalier  meaning  that  un- 
derlay the  inquiry,  thought  him  a  creditor,  and  was 
about  to  take  his  most  disdainful  air  when  the 
young  man,  in  a  high  voice,  the  nasal  tone  of  which 
doubled  its  insolence,  informed  "  that  species  of 
upstart "  that  he  was  to  tell  his  master  at  once  that 
the  King  of  Illyria  wished  to  speak  to  him.  .  . 
"  Ah !  Monseigneur.  .  .  Monseigneur.  .  ."  Among 
the  cosmopolitan  crowd  which  happened  to  be  there 
at  that  moment  a  movement  of  curiosity  towards 
the  hero  of  Ragusa  took  place.  From  all  the  open 
compartments  rushed  a  swarm  of  clerks  to  escort 
his  Majesty  to  Tom  Levis,  who  had  not  yet 
arrived,  but  could  not  fail  to  be  there  from  one 
moment  to  another. 

This  was  the  first  time  that  Christian  had 
appeared  at  the  Agency,  the  old  Due  de  Rosen 
having  until  now  paid  all  the  bills  of  the  little 
Court.  But  the  present  matter  concerned  an 
affair  so  private,  so  delicate,  that  the  king  did  not 
dare  to  confide  it  even  to  the  clumsy  hands  of  his 
aide-de-camp.  .  .  A  little  house  to  rent  for  a 


J.   Tom  Levis,  Foreigners   Agent.     137 

circus-rider  who  had  just  displaced  Amy  Fe"rat ;  a 
furnished  house  with  servants,  stable,  and  certain 
facilities  of  access,  —  one  of  those  affairs,  in  short, 
which  the  Levis  agency  alone  knew  how  to 
accomplish. 

The  salon  where  he  waited  contained  exactly 
two  large  arm-chairs  in  varnished  leather,  one  of 
those  narrow  and  silent  gas  stoves  which  seem  to 
send  you  their  fire  from  another  room,  and  a  small 
round  table  covered  with  a  blue  cloth  on  which  lay 
an  almanach  Bottin.  Half  the  room  was  taken  up 
by  a  tall  wire  grating,  draped  with  blue  curtains, 
surrounding  a  desk  carefully  placed,  on  which  was 
a  large  book  with  steel  corners,  open,  a  weight  on 
the  page;  and  around  it  powder-boxes,  erasers, 
rulers,  pen-wipers,  a  long  case  filled  with  books  of 
the  same  shape  —  the  books  of  the  Agency !  — 
their  green  backs  in  line,  like  Prussians  on  parade. 
The  order  prevailing  in  this  quiet  little  corner, 
the  neatness  of  the  things  within  it,  did  honour  to 
the  old  bookkeeper,  absent  for  the  moment,  whose 
methodical  existence  must  surely  be  passed  there. 

While  the  king  waited,  lolling  in  his  chair,  his 
nose  in  the  air  above  his  furs,  suddenly,  without 
any  movement  of  the  glass  door  opening  to  the 
counting-room  and  covered  by  an  Algerine  hang- 
ing with  a  clown's  hole,  like  a  stage  curtain,  a  sound 
of  the  light,  quick  scratching  of  a  pen  made  itself 
heard.  Some  one  was  sitting  at  the  desk,  and  it 
was  not  the  old  clerk  with  a  white  wolf's-head 
for  whom  the  niche  seemed  to  have  been  made, 
but  the  most  delicious  little  person  who  ever  fin- 


138  Kings  in  Exile. 

gered  a  commercial  ledger.  At  an  exclamation  of 
surprise  from  Christian,  she  looked  round,  envel- 
oped him  with  a  soft  glance,  slowly  turning  and 
drowning  a  sparkle  at  the  corner  of  each  eye. 
The  whole  room  was  illuminated  by  that  glance ; 
and  musically  charmed  by  an  emotional,  almost 
trembling  voice  which  murmured :  "  My  husband 
keeps  you  waiting  a  long  time,  Monseigneur." 

Tom  Levis  her  husband  !  .  .  the  husband  of  that 
sweet  being  with  the  pale,  refined  profile,  the  lithe 
full  form  of  a  Tanagra  figurine.  .  .  How  came  she 
there,  alone  in  that  cage,  fingering  those  big  books, 
the  whiteness  of  which  was  reflected  on  her  ivory 
skin  while  her  little  hands  found  difficulty  in  turning 
their  pages  ?  And  this  on  one  of  those  beautiful 
days  of  February  when  the  toilets,  the  lively  grace, 
the  smiles  of  women  were  shimmering  along  the 
boulevard  in  the  sunlight.  The  king  made  her,  as 
he  approached,  a  gallant  little  speech,  in  which 
various  impressions  were  mingled,  but  his  heart 
interfered  with  his  tongue,  so  quickly  did  it  beat 
in  his  breast,  excited  by  a  sudden,  ungovernable 
desire  such  as  this  spoilt  and  blase  child  could  not 
remember  having  ever  felt  before.  This  type  of 
woman  between  twenty-five  and  thirty  was  a  nov- 
elty to  him ;  as  far  from  the  mutinous  curls  of 
Colette  de  Rosen  and  the  immodest  painted  eyes 
and  bold  self-possession  of  the  Ferat  as  it  was 
from  the  embarrassing  and  nobly  sad  majesty  of 
the  queen.  Neither  coquetry,  nor  impudence,  nor 
proud  reserve,  nothing  of  what  he  had  hitherto 
encountered  in  good  society  or  in  his  relations 


J.   Tom  Levis,  Foreigners   Agent.     139 

with  upper  harlotry.  This  pretty  person,  calm 
and  home-keeping  in  manner,  her  beautiful  dark 
hair  smooth  as  that  of  a  woman  who  has  dressed 
it  for  the  whole  day,  simply  attired  in  a  woollen 
gown  with  violet  reflections  so  that  two  enormous 
brilliants  at  the  rosy  tips  of  her  ears  alone  pre- 
vented her  from  being  classed  among  the  humblest 
of  employees,  this  charming  creature  appeared  to 
him,  in  her  office  captivity  and  toil,  like  a  Carmelite 
nun  behind  the  cloister  grating,  or  some  Eastern 
slave  imploring  those  without  through  the  gilded 
trellis  of  her  terraced  roof.  Of  the  slave  she  had 
indeed  the  submissive  timidity,  the  bending  profile, 
while  the  amber  tones  where  the  hair  began,  the 
two  straight  lines  of  the  eyebrows,  the  lips  that  her 
breathing  parted,  gave  an  Asiatic  origin  to  this 
Parisian.  Standing  before  her,  Christian  pictured 
to  himself  the  bald  head,  the  simian  aspect  of  the 
husband.  How  came  she  in  the  power  of  such  an 
object?  Was  it  not  robbery,  a  flagrant  injustice? 

But  the  sweet  voice  continued,  slowly,  with 
excuses :  "  It  is  too  vexatious.  .  .  Tom  does  not 
come.  .  .  If  your  Majesty  would  tell  me  what 
brings  you  ...  I  might  perhaps  ..." 

He  coloured,  slightly  embarrassed.  Never  could 
he  have  dared  to  confide  to  that  candid  kindness 
the  equivocal  establishment  he  was  meditating. 
Whereupon  she  urged  him,  gently  smiling :  "  Oh  ! 
Your  Majesty  may  feel  quite  secure.  .  .  It  is  I 
who  keep  all  the  books  of  the  Agency." 

In  fact  her  authority  in  the  house  was  readily 
seen ;  for  at  every  instant  the  little  window  which 


140  Kings  in  Exile  ^ 

communicated  between  her  retreat  and  the  count- 
ing-room was  opened  by  some  clerk  coming  to  ask 
in  low  tones  for  the  queerest  information :  "  The 
Pleyel  of  Mme.  Karitides  is  wanted."  .  .  "  The  per- 
son from  the  Hotel  Bristol  is  here."  She  seemed 
to  be  concerned  in  it  all,  answered  with  a  word, 
spoken  or  written,  and  the  king,  much  disturbed, 
asked  himself  if  that  angel  in  commerce,  that  aerial 
being  could  really  know  the  secret  dealings  and 
filibusterings  of  the  Englishman. 

"  No,  madame,  the  matter  that  brought  me  here 
is  not  urgent  ...  or,  at  least,  it  is  no  longer  so.  .  . 
My  ideas  have  changed  within  an  hour." 

He  bent  to  the  wire  screen  as  he  stammered  the 
words  with  emotion,  and  then  stopped,  blaming 
himself  for  his  audacity  in  presence  of  the  placid 
activity  of  that  woman,  her  long  lashes  sweeping 
toward  the  ledger  and  her  pen  running  swiftly  in 
regular  lines.  Oh !  how  he  longed  to  snatch  her 
from  that  prison,  carry  her  away  in  his  arms  far, 
very  far,  with  the  murmuring,  cradling  tenderness 
with  which  we  soothe  young  children.  The  temp- 
tation became  so  strong  that  he  was  forced  to 
escape  and  take  leave  suddenly,  without  having 
seen  J.  Tom  Levis. 

It  was  now  dark;  the  night  was  misty  and 
bleak.  The  king,  usually  so  chilly,  did  not  observe 
it,  but  sent  away  his  carriage  and  went  on  foot 
from  the  Madeleine  to  the  Place  Vend6me,  so 
enthusiastic,  so  transported  that  he  talked  to  him- 
self aloud,  his  thin  lashes  dropped  over  his  eyes 


J.   Tom  Levis,  Foreigners'  Agent.     141 

before  which  flames  were  dancing.  We  sometimes 
rub  shoulders  in  the  street  with  these  exuberant 
happinesses,  their  step  light,  their  heads  high ;  they 
seem  to  leave  a  phosphorescence  on  your  clothes 
as  they  pass.  Christian  reached  the  club  in  the 
same  happy  humour,  in  spite  of  the  dulness  of  the 
suite  of  salons  at  this  uncertain,  unoccupied  twi- 
light hour,  always  especially  melancholy  in  clubs, 
those  semi-public  places  which  lack  the  privacy 
and  habits  of  a  home.  Lamps  were  brought  in. 
A  game  of  billiards  was  going  on  without  interest 
to  the  rattle  of  ivory  and  low  voices,  the  rustling 
of  newspapers,  and  the  snoring  of  a  sleeper 
stretched  on  a  divan  of  the  grand  salon,  whom  the 
king's  entrance  roused  and  caused  to  turn  with  a 
toothless  yawn  and  a  long  stretching  of  lean  arms 
as  he  asked  in  a  mournful  voice :  — 

"  Do  we  make  fete  to-night?  " 

Christian  gave  a  cry  of  joy. 

"  Ah  !  prince,  I  was  looking  for  you." 

This  was  Prince  d'Axel,  more  familiarly  known 
as  "  Queue-de-Poule,"  1  who,  during  the  ten  years 
that  he  had  lounged  the  streets  of  Paris  en 
amateur,  knew  that  city  from  top  to  bottom,  in 
length  and  breadth,  from  the  portico  of  Tortoni  to 
the  brook,  and  could  therefore  furnish  the  king 
with  all  the  information  he  wanted.  Consequently, 
knowing  the  right  way  to  make  his  Highness  talk 
and  to  loosen  that  torpid,  heavy  mind  which  the 
wines  of  France  (although  he  abused  them)  were 

1  Argot  with  several  meanings ;  "  fashionable  sharper  "  might 
express  it  here.  —  TR. 


142  Kings  in  Exile. 

no  more  able  to  set  a-going  than  the  fermentation 
of  a  vintage  could  raise  into  a  balloon  a  hogshead 
hooped  with  iron,  Christian  called  quickly  for 
cards.  As  the  heroines  of  Moliere  have  no  wit 
unless  with  fan  in  hand,  so  d'Axel  recovered  a 
little  life  only  when  "juggling  the  pasteboard." 
The  fallen  Majesty  and  the  royal  disgraced  heir,  the 
two  celebrities  of  the  club,  began  before  dinner  a 
Chinese  bezique,  the  most  gommeux  game  of  all, 
because  it  does  not  burden  the  mind,  and  allows 
an  unskilful  player  to  lose  a  fortune  without  the 
slightest  effort. 

"  So  Tom  Levis  is  a  married  man,"  said  Chris- 
tian II.,  with  a  careless  air,  as  he  cut  the  cards. 
The  other  looked  at  him  with  his  dead  eyes  edged 
with  red. 

"  Didn't  you  know  it?  .  .  " 

"  No.  .  .     Who  is  the  woman?  " 

"  Sephora  Leemans  .  .  .  celebrity.  .  .  " 

The  king  shuddered  at  the  name  Sephora. 

"  Then  she  is  a  Jewess?  "  he  said. 

"  Probably." 

There  was  a  moment's  silence.  The  Impression 
made  by  Sephora  must  indeed  have  been  very 
strong  —  that  oval,  clear  white  face  of  the  half- 
hidden  woman,  her  brilliant  pupils,  her  hair 
smoothed  so  seductively  —  to  triumph  over  the 
prejudices  of  the  king,  and  continue  to  exist  in  a 
Slav  and  Catholic  memory  haunted  from  infancy 
by  the  pillagings  and  other  infernal  misdeeds  of 
the  Bohemian  Jews  of  his  own  country.  Unfor- 
tunately, the  prince  was  losing  the  game,  and  quite 


J.   Tom  Levis>  Foreigners   Agent.     143 

absorbed  in  it;  he  began  to  grumble  in  his  long 
yellow  beard :  — 

"Ah  !  I  am  getting  stupid.  .  .     I  am  stupid.  .  .  " 

Impossible  to  get  another  word  out  of  him. 

"  Good  !  here  's  Wattelet.  .  .  Come  here,  Wat- 
telet  ..."  said  the  king  to  a  tall  young  man  who 
now  came  in,  frisky  and  noisy  as  a  young  puppy. 

Wattelet,  painter  of  the  Grand-Club  and  of  high 
life,  rather  handsome  at  a  distance,  but  bearing  on 
his  features  the  marks  and  the  weariness  of  too  fast 
a  life,  was  a  good  representative  of  the  modern 
artist,  who  so  little  resembles  the  flaunting  tradi- 
tions of  1830.  Correctly  dressed,  hair  the  same, 
frequenter  of  coulisse  and  salon,  there  was  nothing 
of  the  studio  rapin  about  him,  but  a  supple  and 
rather  loose-jointed  carriage  under  his  fashionable 
coat,  and  in  his  mind  as  in  his  language  a  certain 
elegant  misarticulation,  a  turn  of  the  lip  that  was 
careless  and  chaffing.  Coming  one  day  to  the  club 
to  decorate  the  dining-room,  he  made  himself  so 
agreeable,  so  indispensable  to  all  the  gentlemen, 
that  he  remained  there,  the  organizer  of  the  fetes 
and  the  rather  monotonous  amusements  of  the 
place  ;  infusing  into  these  pleasures  the  unexpected 
of  a  picturesque  imagination  and  of  a  training 
acquired  in  all  parts  of  the  world.  "  My  dear 
Wattelet.  .  .  That  good  Wattelet."  .  .  They  could 
not  do  without  him.  He  was  the  intimate  friend  of 
all  the  members  of  the  club,  of  their  wives,  of  their 
mistresses ;  on  one  side  of  a  card  he  designed  the 
costume  of  the  Duchesse  de  V.  .  .  for  a  ball  at 
the  embassy,  on  the  other  side  an  airy  petticoat 


144  Kings  in  Exile. 

for  the  flesh-coloured  tights  of  Mile.  Alzire,  the 
perfumed  little  ballet-girl  of  M.  le  due.  On 
Thursdays  his  studio  was  open  to  all  his  noble 
clients,  delighted  with  the  freedom,  the  fantastic, 
chattering  ease  of  the  establishment,  the  fluttering 
of  soft  colours  on  the  tapestries,  the  collections, 
the  lacquered  furniture,  and  the  artist's  own  pict- 
ures, of  a  style  that  resembled  himself,  elegant, 
with  a  touch  of  the  canaille ;  his  portraits  of  women 
being,  for  the  most  part,  executed  with  a  full 
understanding  of  Parisian  trickery  —  complexions 
disguised,  hair  distraught,  an  art  of  costly  frippery 
in  cascades,  pufifs,  and  trains,  which  made  old 
Spricht  declare,  with  the  disdainful  condescension 
of  a  successful  merchant  to  a  dawning  artist: 
"There  is  no  one  but  that  young  fellow  who 
knows  how  to  paint  the  women  I  dress." 

At  the  king's  first  words,  the  artist  laughed. 

"  Why,  Monseigneur,  that  is  the  little  Sephora." 

"  Do  you  know  her?  " 

"  Through  and  through." 

"  Tell  me." 

And  while  the  game  went  on  between  the  two 
royal  personages,  the  painter,  brought  into  an 
intimacy  of  which  he  felt  very  proud,  straddled  a 
chair,  posed,  coughed,  and,  assuming  the  voice  of 
a  tout  at  a  booth  describing  the  picture  of  what  is 
within,  he  began :  — 

"  Sdphora  Leemans,  born  in  Paris  in  the  year 
one  thousand  eight  hundred  and  forty-five,  six,  or 
seven  .  .  .  among  the  second-hand  dealers  of  the 
Rue  Eginhard,  in  the  Marais  ...  a  dirty  little  damp 


J.  Tom  Levis,  Foreigners   Agent.     145 

alley,  between  the  Passage  Charlemagne  and  the 
Church  of  Saint-Paul,  regular  Jewry.  .  .  Some  day, 
as  you  come  in  from  Saint-Mande,  your  Majesty 
ought  to  make  your  coachman  drive  through  that 
tangle  of  streets  down  there.  .  .  You  would  see  an 
amazing  Paris  .  .  .  such  houses,  such  heads,  a  ver- 
itable gabble  of  Alsatian  and  Hebrew;  shops, 
lairs  of  old-clothes-dealers,  piled  that  high  with 
rags  before  every  door,  old  women  sorting  them 
with  their  hooked  noses,  or  stripping  off  the  covers 
of  the  old  umbrellas ;  and  the  dogs  !  the  vermin ! 
the  smells !  a  regular  ghetto  of  the  middle  ages, 
swarming  in  houses  of  that  very  period,  iron  bal- 
conies, tall  windows  cut  into  lofts.  .  .  But  Pere 
Leemans  is  not  a  Jew ;  he  is  a  Belgian  from  Ghent, 
and  a  Catholic ;  the  little  one  is  called  Sephora 
[Zipporah],  but  she  is  only  a  half-breed  Jewess; 
complexion  and  eyes  of  that  race,  but  not  its  nose 
like  the  beak  of  a  bird  of  prey ;  on  the  contrary, 
the  prettiest  little  straight  nose  in  the  world.  I 
don't  know  where  she  got  it.  .  .  Pere  Leemans  has 
one  of  your  big,  bulbous  faces !  My  first  medal 
at  the  Salon  was  for  that  phiz.  .  .  Heavens !  yes, 
and  the  old  fellow  still  shows  in  a  corner  of  his 
dingy  lair  in  the  Rue  Eginhard,  in  what  he  calls 
his  brocante  (second-hand  trade),  his  full-length 
portrait  signed  Wattelet  —  and  not  one  of  my 
worst,  either.  It  was  a  way  I  took  of  insinuating 
myself  into  the  lair  and  making  love  to  S6phora, 
for  whom  I  had  one  of  those  b/quins  [passing 
passions].  .  ." 

"Beqttins  ?  "  said  the  king,  to  whom  the  Parisian 


146  Kings  in  Exile. 

vocabulary  was  constantly  causing  some  new  sur- 
prise.    "  Ah  !  yes  ...  I  see.  .  .     Go  on." 

"  I  was  not  the  only  one  on  fire,  that's  certain. 
All  day  long  'twas  a  procession  to  the  shop  in 
the  Rue  de  la  Paix ;  for  I  ought  to  have  told  you, 
Monseigneur,  that  in  those  days  Pere  Leemans  had 
two  establishments.  Very  shrewd  and  sly,  that 
old  fellow  understood  the  change  that  has  taken 
place  about  bric-a-brac  in  the  last  twenty  years. 
The  romantic  antiquity  dealer  of  the  dark  quarters, 
in  the  style  of  Hoffmann,  and  even  of  Balzac,  has 
given  way  to  the  seller  of  curiosities,  installed  in 
the  centre  of  Parisian  luxury  with  show  windows 
and  lighted  shops.  Leemans  retained  for  himself 
and  for  connoisseurs  his  musty  old  place  in 
the  Rue  Eginhard ;  but,  for  the  public,  the  street- 
idler,  the  Parisian  gaper  and  lounger,  he  opened 
a  splendid  antiquarian  shop  in  the  Rue  de  la  Paix, 
where  the  tawny  gold  and  the  darkened  silver  of 
old  jewels  and  the  laces  yellowed  to  the  tone  of  a 
mummy  outdid  the  sumptuous  modern  shops  of 
the  jewellers  and  silversmiths  overflowing  with 
magnificence  beside  it.  Sephora  was  about  fifteen, 
years  old  at  that  time,  and  that  calm  and  juvenile 
beauty  of  hers  was  well  set  off  by  those  old  treas- 
ures. And  so  intelligent,  so  clever  in  exhibiting 
them !  and  her  eye  so  sure  and  as  well  trained  as 
her  father's  on  the  true  value  of  a  bibelot.  Ah! 
there  were  plenty  of  amateurs  in  that  shop,  if  only 
for  the  pleasure  of  touching  her  fingers  and  that 
silky  hair  of  hers  in  leaning  over  the  same  glass 
case.  The  mother  was  not  troublesome,  —  an  old 


J.   Tom  Levis,  Foreigners    Agent.     147 

woman,  with  such  black  rings  round  her  eyes 
that  she  looked  as  if  she  wore  spectacles,  always 
mending,  her  nose  buried  in  a  guipure  or  an  old 
bit  of  tapestry,  and  paying  no  attention  to  her 
daughter.  .  .  She  had  good  reason  for  that !  S6- 
phora  was  a  serious  person,  who  was  not  to  be 
diverted  from  her  path." 

"Really?"  said  the  king,  who  seemed  to  be 
enchanted. 

"  Your  Majesty  can  judge.  Mother  Leemans 
slept  at  the  shop ;  the  girl  always  went  back  to  the 
Rue  Eginhard  at  ten  o'clock  so  that  the  old  man 
might  not  be  alone.  Well,  that  admirable  creat- 
ure, whose  beauty  was  celebrated  and  chanted 
in  all  the  papers  and  who  might  by  a  mere  '  yes ' 
of  the  head  have  had  Cinderella's  coach  start  from 
the  ground  before  her,  went,  every  evening,  to 
wait  for  the  omnibus  at  the  Madeleine,  and  thence 
straight  back  to  the  parental  owl's-nest.  In  the 
morning,  as  the  omnibuses  were  not  running  so 
early,  she  came  on  foot  in  all  weathers,  her  black 
gown  under  a  waterproof;  and  I  swear  to  you  that 
in  that  crowd  of  girls  who  came  down  the  Rue  de 
Rivoli-Saint-Antoine  at  that  hour  in  caps  and 
hats  or  their  own  hair,  pretty,  pale,  or  smiling 
faces  and  rosy  little  mouths  coughing  at  the  fog, 
and  always  a  gallant  at  their  heels,  not  one  could 
hold  a  candle  to  her." 

"  What  hour  do  they  come  down  ?  "  growled 
the  royal  prince,  becoming  excited. 

But  Christian  was  provoked. 

"  Let  him  finish  "  .      .he  cried.  "  What  then?  " 


148  Kings  in  Exile. 

"  Well,  then,  Monseigneur,  I  had  succeeded  in 
making  my  way  into  the  house  of  my  angel  and 
was  pushing  my  point  very  gently.  .  .  On  Sun- 
days we  played  little  family  lotos  with  the  other 
second-hand  dealers  of  the  Passage  Charlemagne. 
Sweet  society !  I  always  came  home  with  fleas. 
However,  I  sat  beside  Sephora  and  touched  knees 
with  her  under  the  table,  while  she  looked  at  me 
in  a  certain  angelic  and  limpid  way  that  made 
me  believe  in  innocence  and  the  candour  of  a  real 
virtue.  But  one  day  when  I  went  to  the  Rue 
Eginhard,  I  found  everything  upside  down,  the 
mother  in  tears,  the  father  furious,  rubbing  up  the 
rusty  old  lock  of  an  arquebuse  with  which  he  in- 
tended to  blow  to  bits  the  infamous  seducer.  .  . 
Sephora  had  gone  off  with  Baron  Sala,  one  of 
Pere  Leemans'  richest  clients,  to  whom,  as  I  found 
out  later,  he  had  himself  sold  her  for  some  treasure 
of  old  iron-work.  For  two  or  three  years  she  hid 
her  joys  and  her  loves  with  that  old  septuagenarian 
in  Switzerland,  in  Scotland,  on  the  shores  of  blue 
lakes.  But  one  fine  morning  I  heard  that  she  had 
come  back  and  was  keeping  a  '  family  hotel '  at 
the  end  of  the  Avenue  d'Antin.  I  rushed  there, 
and  found  my  old  passion  as  adorable  and  peace- 
ful as  ever,  at  the  head  of  a  very  queer  table  d'hote 
garnished  with  Brazilians,  Englishmen,  cocottes. 
One  half  the  guests  were  still  eating  salad  while 
the  other  half  had  turned  back  the  cloth  to  play 
baccarat.  That  was  where  she  first  knew  J.  Tom 
Levis,  not  handsome,  no  longer  young,  and  with- 
out a  penny.  What  did  he  do  to  her?  Mystery. 


J.   Tom  Levis,  Foreigner  £  Agent.     149 

It  is  certain,  however,  that  she  sold  her  business, 
and  married  him,  helped  him  to  start  his  Agency, 
at  first  prosperous  and  well  set-up,  but  now  on  the 
down  track;  so  that  Sephora,  who  was  never 
seen,  and  lived  a  recluse  in  that  droll  castellated 
cage  Tom  Levis  sunk  his  money  in,  has  lately, 
that  is,  a  few  months  ago,  made  her  reappearance 
in  the  world  as  the  most  enchanting  of  book- 
keepers. .  .  Dame  /  how  the  clients  flock !  the 
flower  of  the  clubs  give  themselves  rendezvous  in 
the  Rue  Royale;  they  flirt  at  the  wicket  of  that 
counting-room  just  as  they  used  to  do  in  the  anti- 
quity shop,  or  in  the  numbered  chambers  of  the 
'  family  hotel.'  As  for  me,  I  'm  out  of  it.  That 
woman  frightened  me  in  the  end.  Always  the  same 
for  the  last  ten  years ;  not  a  line,  not  a  wrinkle,  her 
long  lashes  lowered,  the  points  of  them  turning  up 
as  heart-hooks,  the  cheeks  beneath  the  eyes  as  young 
and  fresh  as  ever,  —  and  all  this  for  a  grotesque  hus- 
band whom  she  adores !  .  .  .  There  is  something  in 
it  all  to  trouble  and  daunt  the  most  ardent  lover." 

The  king  threw  the  cards  about  angrily. 

"Nonsense!  How  is  it  possible?  .  .  A  villan- 
ous  monkey,  a  fat  carcass  like  Tom  Levis !  .  . 
bald  .  .  .  fifteen  years  older  than  she  ...  a  jabber- 
ing pickpocket.  .  ." 

"  Some  women  like  that,  Monseigneur." 

The  prince-royal  here  remarked,  in  his  drawling, 
vulgar  accent :  — 

"  Nothing  to  be  done  with  that  woman.  .  .  I  Ve 
whistled  for  the  signal  time  and  again.  .  .  It  is 
not  hung  out.  .  .  The  road  is  blocked." 


150  Kings  in  Exile. 

"  Pardieu!  d'Axel,  we  all  know  your  way  of 
whistling,"  said  Christian,  as  soon  as  he  under- 
stood an  expression  which  had  passed  from  the 
slang  of  a  railway  engineer  to  that  of  the  haute 
Gomme.  .  .  "You  have  no  patience.  .  .  You  want 
every  place  to  fly  open  .  .  .  Divan  of  the  Grand- 
Signor  .  .  .  see,  and  conquer.  .  .  But  as  for  me, 
I  consider  that  the  man  who  would  give  himself 
the  trouble  to  be  in  love  with  Sephora,  and  would 
not  balk  at  silence  or  disdain — why,  it  is  an  affair 
of  a  month.  Not  more." 

"  I  bet  not,"  said  d'Axel. 

"  How  much?" 

"  Two  thousand  louis." 

"  Done.     Wattelet,  send  for  the  book." 

The  book  on  which  the  bets  of  the  Grand-Club 
were  inscribed  was  as  curious  and  instructive  in  its 
way  as  the  Levis  trap.  The  grandest  names  of  his- 
toric France  were  there,  sanctioning  the  silliest  and 
most  preposterous  wagers ;  that,  for  instance,  of  the 
Due  de  Courson-Launay,  who,  having  bet  and 
lost  all  the  hairs  on  his  body,  was  forced  to  depi- 
late himself  like  a  Moor,  and  could  neither  walk 
nor  sit  down  for  a  fortnight.  Other  inventions  still 
more  extravagant  were  there,  with  signatures  of 
heroes,  already  inscribed  on  a  hundred  glorious 
parchments,  but  now  misallying  themselves  in 
this  album  of  folly. 

Several  members  of  the  club  came  up  and 
grouped  themselves  around  the  betters  with  re- 
spectful curiosity.  And  this  cynical  and  ridiculous 
wager,  excusable  perhaps  amid  the  laughter  or 


J.  Tom  LeviS)  Foreigners'  Agent.     151 

the  drunkenness  of  exuberant  youth,  took  an  air, 
before  the  gravity  of  those  bald  heads,  the  social 
dignities  they  represented,  and  the  heraldic  impor- 
tance of  the  signatures  affixed,  of  an  international 
treaty  regulating  the  destinies  of  Europe. 

It  was  thus  formulated  :  — 

"February  3rd,  one  thousand  eight  hundred  and 
seventy-five,  his  Majesty  Christian  II.  has  bet  two 
thousand  louis  that  he  will  sleep  with  Sephora  L.  .  . 
before  the  end  of  the  present  month. 

"  His  Royal  Highness  Prince  d'Axel  accepts  the 
bet." 

"  It  might  be  the  right  occasion  to  sign  them- 
selves Rigolo  and  Queue-de-Poule,"  thought  Wat- 
telet  to  himself  as  he  carried  off  the  book,  and 
across  his  fashionable  clown's  face  there  passed 
the  shiver  of  an  evil  laugh. 


152  Kings  in  Exile. 


VI. 

THE  BOHEMIA  OF  EXILE. 

"  WELL,  well !  we  know  all  that !  .  .  '  Aoh !  .  . 
Yes  .  .  .  Goddam.  .  .  Shocking.  .  .'  It  is  when  you 
don't  choose  to  pay  or  answer  that  you  use  that 
sort  of  change.  .  .  But  with  Bibi,  here,  that  won't 
do.  . .  We  '11  settle  our  accounts  now,  old  thief." 

"  Really,  Master  Lebeau,  you  speak  to  me  with 
such  vehemence.  .  ." 

And  to  say  the  word  vehemence  in  French 
(seemingly  very  proud  to  reckon  it  in  his  vocabu- 
lary, for  he  repeated  it  two  or  three  times)  J.  Tom 
Levis  threw  himself  back,  his  shirt  front  prominent, 
and  almost  disappeared  in  the  enormous  white 
clergyman's-cravat  which  bound  his  neck.  At  the 
same  time  the  pupils  of  his  eyes  began  to  veer 
about  and  to  muddle  in  those  wide-open  orbs 
his  undiscoverable  thought ;  while  the  glance  of  his 
adversary,  crouching  and  undulating  beneath  his 
lowered  lids,  replied  to  the  rascally  eloquence  of 
the  Englishman's  look  with  the  visible  cunning  of 
the  sharp  and  hairless  muzzle  of  a  weasel  face. 
With  his  fair  hair,  curled  and  rolled,  his  clothes 
austerely  black  and  buttoned  to  the  chin,  and  the 
correctness  of  his  circumspect  manner,  Maitre 
Lebeau,  the  king's  valet,  had  something  of  a 


The  Bohemia  of  Exile.  153 

solicitor  of  the  old  Chatelet  about  him ;  but  as 
there  is  nothing  like  a  quarrel  or  discussion  of  sel- 
fish interests  to  bring  out  the  truth  of  natures,  this 
man,  so  well-trained,  as  polished  as  his  finger- 
nails, this  dainty  Lebeau,  the  reigning  favourite  of 
royal  antechambers,  former  valet  at  the  Tuileries, 
was  now  exhibiting  the  hideous  rascal  that  he 
really  was,  sharp  after  gain  and  quarry. 

To  shelter  themselves  from  the  spring  rain  that 
was  sweeping  the  courtyard  at  Saint-Mande",  the 
pair  had  taken  refuge  in  the  vast  coach-house 
with  white  walls  lately  plastered  and  covered  to 
half  their  height  with  thick  mats  to  protect  from 
dampness  the  numerous  and  magnificent  carriages 
lined  up  against  them,  wheel  to  wheel,  from  state- 
coaches  all  glass  and  gilding,  to  the  comfortable 
four-in-hand  for  hunting  breakfasts,  the  light, 
useful  phaeton,  and  even  the  sleigh  used  by  the 
queen  upon  the  lakes  in  freezing  weather ;  all  of 
them  keeping,  as  they  reposed  in  the  twilight 
of  the  coachhouse,  their  showy  or  massive  look  of 
beasts  of  luxury,  sparkling  and  costly,  like  the 
fantastic  horses  of  Assyrian  legends.  The  close 
neighbourhood  of  the  stables,  the  sonorous  snort- 
ing and  kicking  against  the  woodwork,  the  half- 
open  harness-room,  showing  its  polished  floor,  its 
billiard-room  panels,  with  all  the  whips  in  rack, 
the  saddles  on  wooden  horses,  the  harnesses  like 
trophies  around  the  walls,  with  glitter  of  steel  and 
garlands  of  reins,  completed  the  impression  of 
comfort  and  upper-class  existence. 

Tom  and  Lebeau  were  quarrelling  in  a  corner, 


154  Kings  in  Exile. 

their  voices  rising  above  the  rattle  of  the  rain  on 
the  asphalt  courtyard.  The  valet  especially,  feel- 
ing himself  at  home,  shouted  loudly:  "Who  could 
understand  such  a  filibuster?  Would  any  one  have 
suspected  such  a  trick?  When  their  Majesties 
left  the  hotel  des  Pyramides  for  Saint-Mande  who 
had  managed  the  affair?  Was  it  Lebeau,  yes  or 
no?  And  did,  too,  in  spite  of  everybody,  in  spite 
of  the  most  open  opposition.  .  .  What  had  been 
agreed  upon  in  return  ?  Were  not  they  to  divide, 
half  and  half,  all  commissions,  all  fees  from  the 
trades-people?  Wasn't  that  it,  precisely?" 

"  Aoh !  .  .  yes  .  .  .  that  was  it.  .  ." 

"  Then  why  do  you  cheat?  " 

"  No,  no  ...  never  cheat,"  said  J.  Tom  Levis, 
his  hand  on  his  shirt-front. 

"  Nonsense,  old  humbug.  .  .  All  the  tradesmen 
give  you  forty  per  cent.  .  .  I  have  proof  of  it.  .  . 
And  you  told  me  it  was  only  ten.  .  .  So  that  on 
the  million  it  cost  to  get  Saint-Mande",  I  have  my 
five  per  cent  —  that  is  fifty  thousand  francs  —  and 
you  your  thirty-five;  in  other  words  seven  times 
more  than  I,  —  three  hundred  and  fifty  thousand 
francs !  .  .  three  hundred  and  fifty  thousand 
francs !  !  .  three  hundred  and  fifty  — " 

He  choked  with  rage,  the  figures  sticking  across 
his  throat  like  a  fishbone.  Tom  tried  to  calm 
him.  In  the  first  place,  it  was  all  much  exagger- 
ated .  .  .  then  the  agent  had  enormous  expenses  .  .  . 
his  rent  in  the  Rue  Royale,  just  increased.  .  .  So 
much  to  put  out,  returns  so  slow.  .  .  Not  to 
mention  the  fact  that  this  was  a  chance  thing  for 


The  Bohemia  of  Exile.  155 

him,  whereas  Lebeau  was  always  there,  and  in  a 
household  where  more  than  two  hundred  thousand 
francs  a  year  were  spent,  there  was  no  lack  of 
opportunity. 

But  the  valet  declined  to  see  it  in  this  way ;  his 
affairs  concerned  no  one,  and  very  certainly  he 
should  not  let  himself  be  duped  by  a  dirty 
Englishman. 

"  Monsieur  Lebeau,  you  are  an  impertinent  fel- 
low .  .  .  and  I  shall  have  nothing  more  to  say  to 
you.  .  ." 

And  Tom  Levis  turned  as  if  to  reach  the  door. 
But  the  other  barred  his  way.  "  Escape  without 
paying  me?  .  .  No,  no.  .  ."  His  lips  were  white. 
His  angry  weasel  snout  stuck  out,  quivering, 
towards  the  Englishman,  who  was  still  very  calm, 
with  such  exasperating  coolness  that  the  valet  at 
last,  losing  all  self-control,  thrust  his  fist  under  his 
nose  with  a  coarse  epithet.  By  a  turn  of  the  hand, 
quick  as  the  parry  of  a  sword,  though  it  had  more 
of  a  street  boxer  than  of  fencing  about  it,  the 
Englishman  struck  down  the  valet's  fist  and  said, 
in  the  purest  Faubourg  Saint-Antoine  accent :  — 

"  None  of  that,  Lisette  ...  or  I  '11  down  you." 

The  effect  of  those  four  words  was  stupendous. 
Lebeau,  bewildered,  looked  mechanically  round 
him  at  first,  to  see  if  it  was  really  the  English- 
man who  spoke ;  then  his  eyes,  returning  to  Torn 
Levis  (now  very  red  and  his  pupils  veering  every 
way),  flashed  into  wild  gayety,  through  which  his 
late  anger  still  vibrated,  —  a  gayety  which  after  a 
moment  took  possession  of  the  agent  himself. 


156  Kings  in  Exile. 

"  Oh !  you  damned  humbug !  you  damned  hum- 
bug !  .  .  I  ought  to  have  suspected  it  ...  No  one 
could  be  as  English  as  all  that !  .  ." 

They  were  still  laughing,  unable  to  recover 
breath,  when  the  door  of  the  harness-room  sud- 
denly opened  wider,  and  the  queen  appeared. 
For  the  last  few  moments  she  had  stopped  in  that 
room,  after  visiting  her  favorite  mare,  and  had  not 
lost  a  word  of  the  conversation.  Coming  from  so 
low  a  region,  the  treachery  touched  her  but  little. 
She  had  long  known  what  to  expect  of  Lebeau, 
that  Tartufife  valet,  the  witness  of  all  her  humilia- 
tions, all  her  sorrows ;  as  for  the  other,  the  man  of 
the  cab,  she  scarcely  knew  him,  a  mere  tradesman. 
But  those  two  men  had  now  revealed  to  her  serious 
matters.  So  the  removal  to  Saint-Mande  had  cost 
a  million !  their  expenses,  which  she  thought  so 
modest,  so  restrained,  were  two  hundred  and  fifty 
thousand  francs  a  year,  when,  as  she  knew,  they  had 
but  forty  thousand.  How  could  she  have  been  so 
long  blind  to  their  way  of  living,  to  the  insufficiency 
of  their  real  resources?  .  .  Who  was  meeting  these 
expenses?  Who  had  paid  for  this  luxury,  house, 
horses,  carriages,  even  her  own  clothes  and  her 
personal  charities?  .  .  Shame  burned  her  cheeks 
at  the  thought  as  she  went  straight  through  the 
courtyard  in  the  rain  and  up  the  steps  of  the 
little  portico  of  the  Administration  building. 

Rosen,  busy  at  the  moment  in  classifying  bills  on 
which  lay  piles  of  louis,  had  a  shock  of  surprise  on 
seeing  her,  which  put  him  on  his  feet. 

"  No  !  .  .    Stay  where  you  are  !  .  ."  she  exclaimed, 


The  Bohemia  of  Exile.  157 

in  a  brusque  voice ;  then  leaning  over  the  duke's 
desk  and  stretching  out  her  hand,  still  gauntleted 
for  the  horse,  she  said,  resolutely,  urgently,  authori- 
tatively :  — 

"  Rosen,  on  what  have  we  lived  for  the  last  two 
years  ?  .  .  Oh !  no  evasions.  .  .  I  know  that  all  I 
thought  hired  was  bought  in  our  name  and  paid 
for.  .  .  I  know  that  Saint-Mande  alone  cost  us 
more  than  a  million,  the  million  we  brought  from 
Illyria.  .  .  You  will  tell  me  now  who  it  is  that  has 
assisted  us  since  then,  and  from  what  hands  we 
receive  charity?" 

The  convulsed  face  of  the  old  man,  the  piteous 
trembling  of  his  shrunken,  withered  hands  told 
Frederica  the  truth. 

"  You  !  .  .     It  is  you  !.  ." 

She  had  never  dreamed  of  it.  And  while  he 
excused  himself,  stammering  the  words  "  duty  .  .  . 
gratitude  .  .  .  restitution.  .  ." 

"  Duke,"  she  said,  violently,  "  the  king  does  not 
take  back  what  he  gives,  and  the  queen  is  not  kept 
like  a  danseuse." 

Tears  gushed  into  her  eyes  like  sparks,  tears  of 
pride  that  did  not  fall. 

"  Oh !  pardon  .  .  .  pardon.  .  ." 

He  was  so  humble,  he  kissed  the  tips  of  her 
fingers  with  an  expression  of  such  sad  regret  that 
she  continued  more  gently :  — 

"  You  will  draw  up  a  statement  of  all  your 
advances,  my  dear  Rosen.  A  receipt  will  be  given 
you,  and  the  king  will  pay  the  debt  as  soon  as  pos- 
sible. .  .  As  for  our  future  expenses  I  shall  take 


158  Kings  in  Exile. 

charge  of  them  myself  henceforth ;  I  will  see  that 
they  do  not  exceed  our  revenue.  We  shall  sell 
horses  and  carriages  and  diminish  the  household. 
Princes  in  exile  should  content  themselves  with 
little." 

The  old  duke  gave  a  start. 

"  Undeceive  yourself,  madame.  .  .  It  is  in  exile 
above  all  that  royalty  needs  all  its  prestige.  Ah ! 
if  I  had  only  been  listened  to  ...  it  is  not  here,  in 
this  suburb,  with  an  establishment  suitable  at  most 
for  a  bathing-season,  that  your  Majesties  should 
have  lived.  I  wanted  you  in  a  palace,  in  full  sight 
of  Parisian  society,  convinced  as  I  am  that  what 
dethroned  kings  have  most  to  fear  is  the  laisser 
aller  that  comes  over  them  when  they  drop  their 
rank,  the  familiarities,  the  street  acquaintance.  .  . 
Oh  !  I  know  ...  I  know.  .  .  they  often  think  me 
very  ridiculous  with  my  questions  of  etiquette,  my 
childish  and  superannuated  punctilio.  And  yet 
such  forms  were  never  more  important ;  they  help 
to  maintain  a  pride  of  demeanour,  too  easily  lost  in 
misfortune.  It  is  the  unyielding  armour  that  keeps 
the  soldier  on  his  feet,  even  though  he  may  be  mor- 
tally wounded." 

She  stood  a  moment  without  replying,  her  pure 
brow  crossed  by  a  reflection  that  came  to  her. 
Then,  raising  her  head,  — 

"  It  is  impossible,"  she  said.  "  There  is  a  higher 
pride  than  that.  I  will  that  from  this  day  things 
shall  be  arranged  as  I  have  said." 

Then  he,  growing  more  urgent,  almost  suppli- 
cating: — 


The  Bohemia  of  Exile.  159 

"  But  your  Majesty  does  not  realize.  .  .  A  sale 
of  horses  and  carriages  ...  a  sort  of  royal  fail- 
ure. .  .  What  an  exposure  !  What  scandal !  " 

"  That  which  is  going  on  is  more  scandalous 
still." 

"But  who  knows  it !  .  .  Who  suspects  it?  .  . 
How  can  any  one  suppose  that  that  old  miser 
Rosen.  .  .  You  yourself  doubted  it  just  now.  .  . 
Oh  !  madame,  madame,  I  conjure  you,  accept  what 
you  are  pleased  to  call  my  devotion.  .  .  Indeed 
you  are  attempting  the  impossible.  .  .  If  you 
knew.  .  .  Why,  your  whole  yearly  revenue  would 
not  suffice  for  the  king's  purse  at  cards." 

"The  king  will  not  play  again,  M.  le  Due." 

This  was  said  in  a  tone !  with  such  eyes !  .  . 
Rosen  insisted  no  longer,  but  he  allowed  himself 
to  add :  — 

"  I  will  do  what  your  Majesty  desires.  But  I 
entreat  you  to  remember  that  all  I  possess  is 
yours,  and  that,  in  case  of  distress,  I  deserve  that 
you  should  first  come  to  me." 

He  was  very  certain  that  the  occasion  would 
occur  before  long. 

The  next  day  the  reforms  began.  Half  the 
household  were  dismissed ;  the  unnecessary  car- 
riages were  sent  to  Tattersall's,  where  they  were 
sold  under  fairly  good  conditions,  except  the  state- 
coaches,  too  striking  to  the  eye  for  private  indi- 
viduals. These  were  got  rid  of,  however,  thanks 
to  an  American  circus  which  came  to  Paris  at 
that  time  with  a  great  display  of  posters ;  and  the 
splendid  coaches,  which  Rosen  had  caused  to  be 


160  Kings  in  Exile. 

built  to  preserve  to  his  princes  a  little  of  their 
vanished  pomp  in  a  distant  hope  of  their  return  to 
Leybach,  now  served  to  exhibit  Chinese  dwarfs  and 
learned  monkeys  and  to  form  grand  historical  cav- 
alcades and  apotheoses  a  la  Franconi.  Toward 
the  end  of  such  performances  these  princely  equi- 
pages, with  their  blazons  scarcely  effaced,  made  the 
tour  of  the  benches  three  times  on  the  dirty  sand 
of  the  arena,  to  the  gay  strains  of  the  orchestra ; 
while  through  their  opened  windows  grotesque 
faces  grinned,  or,  with  degraded  head  close-curled, 
a  famous  female  gymnast,  her  bust  projecting  in  its 
pink  silk  tights,  bowed  to  the  crowd  a  forehead 
shining  greasily  with  pomatum  and  sweat.  All 
these  lost  remains  of  consecrated  kings  reduced 
to  be  the  glitter  of  a  circus !  housed  among  the 
horses  and  trick  elephants !  what  an  omen  for 
royalty ! 

This  sale  at  Tattersall's  was  announced  at  the 
same  time  as  that  of  the  diamonds  of  the  Queen  of 
Galicia  at  the  Hotel  Drouot,  and  the  two  posters 
covering  the  walls  together  made  a  certain  noise ; 
but  Paris  never  stops  long  on  any  subject;  its 
ideas  fly  with  the  flying  sheets  of  the  newspapers. 
People  talked  of  the  two  sales  for  twenty-four 
hours.  The  next  day  they  thought  no  more  about 
them.  Christian  II.  accepted  without  resistance 
the  reforms  set  on  foot  by  the  queen.  Ever  since 
his  melancholy  exhibition  of  himself  he  had  an 
almost  ashamed,  humiliated  attitude  before  her,  a 
wilful  Childishness,  as  if  to  excuse  his  follies  in 
that  way.  Besides,  what  did  these  reforms  in  the 


The  Bohemia  of  Exile.  161 

household  matter  to  him?  His  life,  all  pleasure 
and  dissipation,  was  spent  elsewhere.  But,  sur- 
prising fact,  in  six  months  he  had  never  once  had 
recourse  to  Rosen's  purse.  That  raised  him  a 
little  in  the  eyes  of  the  queen,  who  was  also  grati- 
fied by  no  longer  seeing  the  fantastic  cab  of  the 
Englishman  in  a  corner  of  the  courtyard,  or  meet- 
ing on  the  stairway  the  obsequious  smile  of  that 
courtier  creditor. 

Nevertheless,  the  king  was  spending  much  and 
"  making  fete  "  more  gayly  than  ever.  Where  did 
he  get  the  money?  Elysee  Meraut  discovered 
where  in  a  singular  manner,  through  Uncle  Sauva- 
don,  the  worthy  man  to  whom  he  had  formerly 
given  "  ideas  of  things,"  the  only  one  of  his  early 
connections  whom  he  had  kept  since  his  entrance 
to  Saint-Mande.  From  time  to  time  he  went 
to  breakfast  with  him  at  Bercy,  and  took  him 
news  of  Colette,  whom  the  old  man  complained 
of  never  seeing.  She  was  the  child  of  his  adop- 
tion, his  little  Colette,  th*e  daughter  of  a  poor 
brother  tenderly  loved  and  supported  till  he  died. 
His  mind  was  always  on  her ;  he  paid  for  her  nurses 
and  her  christening  cap,  and  later  for  her  school- 
ing in  the  most  emblazoned  convent  in  Paris. 
She  was  his  vice,  his  living  vanity,  the  pretty 
puppet  whom  he  decked  with  all  the  grovelling 
ambitions  in  his  vulgar  head  of  a  millionnaire 
parvenu ;  and  when  in  the  parlour  of  the  Sacr6- 
Cceur  the  little  Sauvadon  would  tell  him  in  a 
whisper :  "  That  girl's  mother  is  a  baroness,  or  a 
marquise,  or  a  duchess,"  the  uncle  would  shake 


1 62  Kings  in  Exile. 

his  stout  shoulders  and  answer :  "  We  '11  do  better 
for  you  than  that."  He  made  her  a  princess  at 
eighteen.  Highnesses  in  quest  of  dots  were  not 
lacking  in  Paris ;  the  Levis  Agency  kept  quite  an 
assortment ;  the  only  question  was  price.  Sauva- 
don  considered  two  millions  not  too  dear  for  being 
able  to  figure  in  a  corner  of  the  salon  when  the 
young  Princesse  de  Rosen  received  her  guests, 
and  to  have  the  privilege  of  beaming  in  the 
embrasure  of  a  window  with  his  broad  smile  curled 
like  the  edge  of  a  basin  between  short,  tufted 
whiskers,  trimmed  in  the  fashion  of  Louis- Philippe. 
His  little  gray  eyes,  lively  and  sly  —  the  eyes  of 
Colette  —  rather  lessened  the  effect  of  the  stam- 
mering, ingenuous,  incorrect  remarks  that  came 
from  those  thick,  shapeless  lips,  cut  as  if  from 
a  horse's  hoof,  and  the  revelations  of  his  coarse 
square  hands,  which  recalled  the  fact,  even  in  their 
straw-coloured  gloves,  that  they  had  formerly 
rolled  casks  on  the  quay. 

In  the  beginning  he  distrusted  himself,  said 
little,  surprised  and  even  frightened  others  by  his 
silence.  Dame !  it  is  not  in  the  cellars  of  Bercy, 
nor  in  trading  Southern  wines  adulterated  with 
aniline  dyes  and  logwood,  that  you  learn  to  speak 
fine  language.  After  a  while,  thanks  to  Meraut, 
he  obtained  a  few  ready-made  opinions  and  bold 
aphorisms  on  the  events  of  the  day  or  the  book  in 
vogue.  Then  Uncle  Sauvadon  spoke,  and  did  not 
do  it  badly,  except  for  certain  fearful  pronunciations 
fit  to  bring  down  the  lustres,  and  the  alarm  this 
water-carrier  in  a  white  waistcoat  excited  by  the 


The  Bohemia  of  Exile.  163 

emission  of  certain  theories  a  la  Joseph  de  Maistre 
picturesquely  expressed.  But  suddenly  the  sov- 
ereigns of  Illyria  carried  off  his  provider  of  ideas, 
and  how  could  he  then  parade?  Colette,  more- 
over, detained  by  her  duties  as  lady  of  honour, 
never  left  Saint-Mande,  and  Sauvadon  knew  the 
chief  of  the  civil  and  military  household  far  too 
well  to  expect  to  be  received  there.  He  never 
even  spoke  of  it.  Imagine  the  duke  introducing 
that,  presenting  that  to  the  lofty  Frederica !  .  . 
a  wine-merchant !  Not  even  a  retired  merchant ; 
on  the  contrary,  a  dealer  in  full  activity;  for,  in 
spite  of  his  millions,  in  spite  of  his  niece's  en- 
treaties, Sauvadon  still  worked,  spent  his  life  in  his 
storehouses  or  on  the  quays,  a  pen  behind  his 
ear,  his  white  hair  touzled,  among  stevedores  and 
sailors,  unlading  and  carting  away  the  hogsheads ; 
or  else  beneath  the  gigantic  trees  of  an  old  park, 
neglected  and  cut  up,  in  which  his  wealth  was 
stored  under  sheds,  in  casks  innumerable.  "  I 
should  die  if  I  stopped  working,"  he  said,  and  he 
really  lived  on  the  din  of  barrel-rolling  and  the 
good  smell  of  wine-lees  that  came  up  from  the 
damp  cellars  of  the  great  storehouses  where  he 
had  started  in  life,  forty-five  years  earlier,  as  a 
journeyman  cooper. 

It  was  there  that  filysee  sometimes  went  to  see 
his  old  pupil  and  enjoy  a  breakfast  such  as  Bercy 
alone  knows  how  to  serve,  under  the  trees  of  the 
park  or  the  gateway  of  a  cellar,  with  fresh  wine 
drawn  from  the  cask,  and  fish  that  were  frisking  a 
moment  earlier  in  the  fish-pond,  cooked  by  a  local 


164  Kings  in  Exile. 

receipt  for  matelotes  as  in  Languedoc  or  the 
Vosges.  It  was  now  no  longer  a  question  of 
"ideas  of  things,"  inasmuch  as  there  were  no 
evenings  to  be  spent  at  Colette's;  but  the  good 
man  liked  to  hear  Meraut  talk,  and  to  see  him  eat 
and  drink  liberally,  for  he  always  remembered  the 
den  in  the  Rue  Monsieur-le-Prince,  and  treated 
Elysee  as  one  saved  from  the  shipwreck  of  ex- 
istence. Affecting  care  of  a  man  who  has  gone 
hungry  himself  for  another  whom  he  knows  to 
be  poor !  Meraut  gave  him  news  of  his  niece 
and  of  her  life  at  Saint-Mande,  bringing  him  a 
reflection  of  her  grandeurs  which  had  cost  the 
old  man  so  dear  and  of  which  he  was  no  longer 
a  witness.  No  doubt  he  was  proud  to  think  of  the 
lady  of  honour,  dining  with  kings  and  queens,  re- 
volving in  court  ceremonial.  Still,  the  grief  of 
never  seeing  her  increased  his  rancour  and  ill- 
humour  against  old  Rosen. 

"  Why  should  he  be  so  stuck  up  ?  His  name  ? 
his  title?  .  .  Why,  I  paid  for  them,  with  my  own 
money.  .  .  His  crosses,  his  cordons,  his  orders !  .  . 
ha !  I  can  have  them  when  I  choose.  .  .  By  the 
bye,  Meraut,  you  don't  know.  .  .  Since  I  saw  you 
last,  I  have  had  a  piece  of  luck." 

"What  kind,  uncle?" 

filyse'e  called  him  "  uncle  "  with  an  affectionate 
familiarity  that  was  quite  Southern,  —  the  desire  to 
give  a  name  to  the  peculiar  sympathy  (without 
any  bond  of  mind)  which  he  felt  for  the  stout  old 
merchant. 

"  My  dear  fellow,  I  have  the  Lion  of  Illyria  .  .  . 


The  Bohemia  of  Exile.  165 

the  cross  of  commander.  .  .  That  duke  need  n't  be 
so  proud  of  his  grand  cordon !  .  .  On  New  Year's 
day,  when  I  go  and  pay  him  a  visit,  I  shall  stick  on 
my  star  .  .  .  that  will  teach  him  to  —  " 

Elysee  could  not  believe  it.  The  Order  of 
the  Lion !  one  of  the  oldest  and  most  coveted 
in  Europe  .  .  .  given  to  uncle  Sauvadon  !  "  my 
uncle!  .  ."  Why?  .  .  for  having  sold  adulterated 
wine  of  Bercy? 

"  Oh  !  it  is  very  simple,"  said  the  other,  wrink- 
ling up  his  little  gray  eyes.  "  I  bought  the  rank 
of  commander  just  as  I  bought  the  title  of  prince. 
For  a  little  more  I  could  have  bought  the  grand 
cordon  itself;  that's  for  sale,  too." 

"Where?"  cried  M6raut,  turning  pale. 

"  Why,  at  the  Levis  Agency,  Rue  Royale.  .  . 
You  can  get  anything  at  that  devil  of  an  English- 
man's. .  .  My  cross  cost  me  ten  thousand  francs 
.  .  .  the  cordon  was  fifteen  thousand.  .  .  And  I 
know  the  man  who  has  given  it  to  himself.  Guess 
who.  .  .  Biscarat,  the  great  hair-dresser,  Biscarat, 
Boulevard  des  Capucines.  .  .  But,  my  good  fel- 
low, what  I  am  telling  you  is  known  to  all  Paris.  .  . 
Go  and  ask  Biscarat  himself;  you  '11  see  in  the  big 
room  where  he  officiates  with  his  thirty  assist- 
ants an  immense  photograph  representing  him  as 
Figaro,  razor  in  hand,  and  the  collar  of  the  Order 
across  his  breast.  .  .  The  picture  is  reproduced  in 
miniature  on  the  labels  of  all  the  bottles  in  the 
shop.  .  .  If  the  duke  were  to  see  that !  .  .  his 
moustache  would  turn  up  into  his  nose.  .  .  You 
know,  how  he  does.  .  ." 


1 66  Kings  in  Exile. 

And  he  tried  to  mimic  the  duke's  grimace,  but 
as  he  had  no  moustache  it  was  not  at  all  the  true 
thing. 

"  Have  you  your  patent,  uncle?  Will  you  show 
it  to  me?" 

Elysee  still  had  the  hope  that  there  was  some 
trickery  under  it  all,  some  forgery  on  which  the 
Levis  Agency  would  trade  without  scruple.  No. 
All  was  apparently  regular,  —  drawn  in  due  form, 
stamped  with  the  arms  of  Illyria,  signed  by  Bosco- 
vich  and  the  scrawl  of  King  Christian  II.  Doubt 
was  no  longer  possible.  A  traffic  in  crosses  and 
cordons  was  going  on,  with  the  king's  permission. 
But  to  convince  himself  finally,  M6raut,  as  soon 
as  he  returned  to  Saint-Mande",  went  up  to  the 
councillor. 

In  the  corner  of  an  immense  hall,  which  covered 
the  whole  upper  floor  of  the  house  and  served  as 
a  business  office  for  Christian,  —  in  which  he  did 
no  business,  —  a  fencing-room,  a  gymnasium,  and 
a  library,  he  found  Boscovich  among  his  pigeon- 
holes and  layers  of  thick  brown  paper  on  which 
were  leaves  affixed,  or  the  last  plants  gathered 
laid  to  dry.  Since  his  exile  the  learned  naturalist 
had  made  in  the  Parisian  woods  of  Vincennes 
and  Boulogne,  which  contain  the  richest  flora  of 
France,  the  beginning  of  a  new  collection.  More- 
over, he  had  purchased  the  herbarium  of  another 
famous  naturalist,  lately  deceased,  and  now,  ab- 
sorbed in  the  examination  of  his  new  treasures, 
his  head  bloodless,  of  no  age,  bending  over  the 
lens  of  a  magnifying  glass,  he  was  lifting  cautiously 


The  Bohemia  of  Exile.  167 

the  heavy  sheets  between  which  the  plants  lay 
flattened  from  corollas  to  extended  roots,  their 
colours  lost  at  the  edges.  When  a  specimen  was 
well-preserved,  intact,  he  uttered  cries  of  joy  and 
admiration,  considered  it  long,  with  moistened  lips, 
reading  aloud  its  Latin  name  and  its  description, 
written  below  on  a  little  label.  At  other  times  an 
exclamation  of  anger  escaped  him  on  seeing  the 
flower  attacked  and  perforated  by  that  almost  im- 
perceptible worm  well  known  to  herbalists,  an 
atom  born  of  the  dust  of  plants  and  subsisting  on 
it,  which  is  the  danger  and  often  the  destruction 
of  collections.  The  stalk  still  holds,  but  move  the 
page  and  the  whole,  flowers,  roots,  drop  into  pow- 
der and  disappear  in  a  thin  vapour. 

"  'T  is  the  worm  .  .  .  the  worm.  .  . "  Boscovich 
would  say,  the  glass  at  his  eye,  and  showing  with 
a  sad,  but  self-satisfied  air  a  perforation  like  that 
the  wood-mite  makes,  indicating  the  passage  of  the 
monster.  Meraut  could  have  no  suspicion  of  such 
a  being.  The  monomaniac  was  incapable  of  an 
infamous  action,  but  he  was  also  incapable  of  the 
slightest  resistance.  At  the  first  word  concerning 
the  decorations  he  began  to  tremble,  looked  side- 
ways over  his  lens,  timid  and  fearful.  .  .  What  was 
all  this?  Yes,  certainly,  the  king  had  lately  made 
him  prepare  a  quantity  of  patents  of  all  grades, 
leaving  the  name  in  blank ;  that  was  all  he  knew 
about  it,  and  never  did  he  presume  to  ask  more. 

"  Well,  Monsieur  le  conseiller,"  said  Iilyse'e, 
gravely,  "  I  warn  you  now  that  his  Majesty  is 
trading  his  crosses  at  the  Levis  Agency." 


1 68  Kings  in  Exile. 

Thereupon  he  related  the  story  of  the  Gascon 
barber,  with  which  all  Paris  had  amused  itself. 
Boscovich  gave  one  of  his  little  feminine  screeches, 
but  at  heart  he  was  very  little  scandalized  ;  all  that 
was  not  his  mania  had  no  real  interest  for  him. 
His  collection  left  behind  at  Leybach  was  to  him 
the  country;  that  which  he  was  now  preparing, 
the  exile  in  France. 

"  But  don't  you  see  it  is  unworthy  ...  a  man 
like  you  ...  to  lend  a  hand  to  such  hideous 
jobbing?" 

Then  the  other,  in  despair  at  his  eyes  being 
forcibly  opened  on  that  he  desired  not  to  see : 

"  Ma  che  .  .  .  ma  che  .  .  .  what  can  I  do,  my  good 
Monsieur  Meraut?  .  .  The  king  is  the  king.  .  . 
When  he  says,  '  Boscovich,  write  that,'  my  hand 
obeys  without  thinking.  .  .  Especially  as  his  Maj- 
esty is  so  good  to  me,  so  generous.  Why,  it  was 
he  who,  seeing  me  in  such  despair  over  the  loss  of 
my  herbarium,  made  me  a  present  of  this  one.  .  . 
Fifteen  hundred  francs !  a  magnificent  bargain  .  .  . 
and  over  and  above  it  I  got  the  '  Hortus  Cliffor- 
tianus  '  of  Linnaeus,  earliest  edition,  thrown  in." 

Naively,  cynically,  the  poor  devil  bared  his  con- 
science ;  it  was  dry  and  dead,  like  his  own  herba- 
rium. His  hobby,  cruel  as  the  imperceptible 
worm  of  naturalists,  had  perforated  all,  gnawing  in 
all  directions.  He  was  not  really  moved  till  filysee 
threatened  to  warn  the  queen.  Then,  at  last,  the 
monomaniac  dropped  his  lens,  and  in  a  low  voice, 
with  the  heavy  sighs  of  a  penitent  at  confession,  he 
made  an  avowal.  Many  things  were  happening 


The  Bohemia  of  facile.  169 

under  his  eyes,  which  he  could  not  help,  though 
they  made  him  wretched.  .  .  The  king  was  badly 
surrounded.  .  .  E poi  che  volete  ?  he  had  no  voca- 
tion for  reigning  ...  no  liking  for  the  throne  .  .  . 
he  never  had  it.  .  .  "  Why,  I  remember  ...  it  is 
a  long  time  ago  ...  in  King  Leopold's  lifetime, 
when  he  had  his  first  attack  on  leaving  the  dinner- 
table,  and  they  came  and  told  Christian  he  would 
soon  succeed  his  uncle,  the  child  —  he  was  only 
twelve  then,  and  was  playing  croquet  in  the  patio 
—  the  child  began  to  cry,  and  cry  ...  a  regular 
nervous  attack  .  .  .  and  he  sobbed  out :  '  I  don't 
want  to  be  king.  .  .  I  won't  be  king.  .  .  Put  my 
cousin  Stanislas  in  my  place.'  I  often  remember, 
when  I  see  it  now  in  Christian  II.'s  eyes,  the  scared 
and  frightened  look  he  had  that  morning,  clutch- 
ing his  mallet  with  all  his  might  as  if  he  feared  they 
would  carry  him  by  force  to  the  throne-room,  and 
crying  out :  '  I  don't  want  to  be  king !  .  . " 

Christian's  whole  character  was  revealed  in  that 
anecdote.  No,  undoubtedly,  he  was  not  a  wicked 
man,  but  a  childish  man,  married  too  young,  with 
exuberant  passions  and  hereditary  vices.  The 
life  he  led,  the  nights  at  the  club,  the  women,  the 
suppers  —  in  a  certain  society,  that  is  the  normal 
condition  of  husbands  —  all  this  was  made  worse 
by  the  role  of  king  which  he  did  not  know  how  to 
maintain,  by  its  responsibilities  above  his  measure 
and  his  strength,  and  especially  by  this  exile  which 
slowly  demoralized  him.  A  firmer  nature  than  his 
could  have  resisted  the  tumult  of  broken  habits, 
constant  uncertainty,  senseless  hopes,  the  anguish 


170  Kings  in  Exile. 

and  enervation  of  inactive  waiting.  Like  the 
ocean,  exile  has  its  torpor;  it  dulls,  it  benumbs. 
'Tis  a  phase  of  transition.  No  one  escapes  the 
ennui  of  a  long  voyage  unless  by  periods  of  fixed 
occupation  or  regular  hours  for  study.  But  what 
can  a  king  find  to  do  when  he  has  no  people,  no 
ministers,  no  council ;  nothing  to  decide  or  sign, 
and  is  possessed  of  too  much  intelligence  or  sar- 
casm to  amuse  himself  with  a  pretence  at  such 
things,  but  also  of  too  much  ignorance  to  attempt 
a  diversion  to  some  other  assiduous  labour?  Exile 
is  the  sea,  but  it  is  also  shipwreck ;  casting  its  first 
cabin  passengers,  its  privileged  classes  pell-mell 
with  the  passengers  of  the  steerage  and  the  deck. 
A  man  must  have  a  sense  of  proud  prestige,  the 
temperament  of  a  king,  not  to  let  himself  be  caught 
by  familiarities,  by  degrading  promiscuities  for 
which  he  will  later  have  to  blush  and  suffer,  and  to 
keep  himself  regal  in  the  midst  of  privations,  dis- 
tresses, and  impurities  which  mingle  and  confound 
ranks  in  one  general  humanity. 

Alas !  this  Bohemia  of  exile  was  beginning  to 
swallow  up  the  house  of  Illyria,  which  the  Due  de 
Rosen  had  so  long  preserved  at  the  cost  of  such 
great  personal  sacrifices.  The  king  was  put  to  ex- 
pedients in  order  to  pay  the  costs  of  "  making 
fete."  He  began,  like  a  son  of  the  family,  by  giv- 
ing notes,  finding  that  means  quite  as  simple  and 
even  more  convenient,  J.  Tom  Levis  assisting,  than 
drafts  "  on  our  privy  purse,"  which  he  had  hitherto 
addressed  to  the  civil  and  military  chief  of  the 
household.  These  notes  reached  maturity  and 


The  Bohemia  of  Exile.  171 

were  renewed  by  a  crowd  of  others,  until  the  day 
when  Tom  Levis,  finding  himself  sucked  dry,  in- 
vented the  capital  traffic  in  patents,  —  the  trade  of 
king  without  people  or  civil  list  presenting  no 
other  source  of  profit.  The  poor  Lion  of  Illyria, 
chopped  up  like  butcher's  meat  in  quarters  and 
slices,  was  sold  at  the  stalls  for  so  much  the  mane 
and  the  rump,  the  ribs  and  the  paws. 

But  that  was  only  the  beginning.  Once  in  Tom 
Levis's  cab,  the  king  would  not  stop  on  so  fine  a 
road.  Meraut  said  this  to  himself  as  he  left  Bosco- 
vich.  He  saw  that  no  reliance  could  be  placed  on 
that  man,  easily  led,  like  all  others  with  a  hobby.  .  . 
He  himself  was  too  new,  too  entirely  a  stranger  in 
the  house  to  have  any  influence  upon  Christian. 
Should  he  speak  to  old  Rosen  ?  At  the  first  words 
he  uttered  the  duke  would  throw  him  a  terrible 
glance,  all  his  religions  being  insulted.  The  king, 
low  as  he  had  fallen,  was  still  "  the  king  "  to  that  man. 
No  resource  in  the  monk  either,  whose  wild  face 
now  appeared  only  at  long  intervals  between  two 
journeys,  and  always  more  lean  and  sunburned. 

The  queen  ?  .  .  but  he  saw  her  so  sad,  so  fevered 
of  late,  her  beautiful,  discreet  brow  clouded  by 
care  when  she  came  to  her  boy's  lessons,  to  which 
she  now  listened  with  an  absent  mind,  her  fingers 
suspended  idly  over  her  tapestry.  Grave  concerns 
were  troubling  her,  strange  and  new  to  her,  and 
coming  from  below;  anxieties  about  money,  the 
humiliation  of  so  many  hands  stretched  to  receive 
it  which  she  could  not  fill  —  tradesmen,  the  poor, 
the  companions  of  their  exile  and  their  misfor- 


172  Kings  in  Exile. 

tunes;  all  that  sad  business  of  a  sovereign  who 
has  duties  and  burdens  though  he  has  no  rights. 
Creditors  who  had  learned  their  way  to  the  once 
prosperous  house  now  waited  for  hours  in  the 
antechambers,  and  often,  weary  of  waiting,  left 
words  behind  them  when  they  went  away  which 
the  queen  guessed  without  hearing,  from  the  dis- 
contented manner  and  lagging  step  of  men  who 
had  been  thrice  dismissed.  She  strove  in  vain  to 
bring  order  into  the  new  scale  of  living;  misfor- 
tunes happened ;  bad  investments ;  paralyzed 
stocks.  It  was  necessary  to  wait,  or  all  would  be 
sacrificed  in  selling. 

Poor  queen,  poor  Frederica,  who  thought  she 
knew  all  there  was  to  know  in  the  matter  of  suffer- 
ing ;  she  did  not  know  the  distresses  that  wilt  the 
spirit,  the  hard  and  wounding  contact  with  daily 
and  commonplace  existence.  There  were  monthly 
bills  of  which  she  thought  at  night,  shuddering  in 
her  bed,  like  the  head  of  a  business  house.  Some- 
times when  the  wages  were  not  paid,  she  dreaded 
to  see  in  the  delay  of  an  order,  in  a  look  less 
humble,  the  discontent  of  a  servant.  In  short,  she 
knew  Debt,  little  by  little  the  galling  debt  which 
forces  with  its  dunning  perseverance  the  loftiest 
and  most  gilded  doors.  The  old  duke,  grave  and 
silent,  watched  his  queen's  anguish  and  wandered 
round  her,  as  if  to  be  always  saying  to  her,  "  I  am 
here."  But  she  was  firmly  resolved  to  exhaust  all 
possible  means  before  she  took  back  her  word  and 
turned  to  him  whom  she  had  crushed  with  so 
haughty  a  lesson. 


The  Bohemia  of  Exile.  173 

One  evening  the  little  Court  was  collected  in 
the  grand  salon,  a  monotonous  assemblage,  always 
the  same,  and  without  the  king  as  usual.  Be- 
neath the  silver  candelabra  the  queen's  game,  as  it 
was  called,  was  going  on  at  the  whist  table,  the 
duke  facing  her  Majesty,  with  Mme.  Eleonore 
and  Boscovich  against  them.  The  princess  was 
playing  softly  on  the  piano  some  of  those  "  echoes 
of  Illyria"  to  which  Frederica  never  tired  of  listen- 
ing, and  at  her  first  sign  of  satisfaction  the  player 
would  deepen  them  into  paeans  of  war  and  valour. 
Those  evocations  of  their  country,  bringing  to  the 
faces  of  the  whist-players  a  tearful  smile,  alone 
broke  the  atmosphere  of  resigned  exile  and  its 
settled  habits  in  the  rich  bourgeois  salon  which 
now  sheltered  majesty. 

Ten  o'clock  struck. 

The  queen,  instead  of  going  up  as  usual  to  her 
apartments,  giving  by  her  departure  the  signal  to 
retreat,  cast  an  absent  look  around  her  and  said : 

"  You  may  retire.  I  have  work  to  do  with  M. 
Meraut." 

Elysee,  who  was  reading  near  the  fireplace, 
bowed  as  he  closed  the  pamphlet  he  had  in  his 
hand  and  went  into  the  schoolroom  to  fetch  pens, 
ink,  and  paper. 

When  he  returned  the  queen  was  alone,  listen- 
ing to  the  carriages  as  they  rolled  from  the  court- 
yard, the  great  gates  closing  behind  them,  while 
along  the  corridors  and  stairways  the  various  go- 
ings and  comings  of  a  numerous  household  at  the 
hour  for  retirement  sounded  through  the  house. 


174  Kings  in  Exile. 

Silence  came  at  last;  silence  increased  by  two 
leagues  of  forest  which  deadened  among  its  foliage 
the  distant  murmurs  sent  from  Paris.  The  de- 
serted salon,  still  brilliantly  lighted  in  its  soli- 
tude seemed  all  prepared  for  some  tragic  scene. 
Frederica,  resting  her  elbow  on  the  table,  pushed 
back  the  blotter  prepared  by  Meraut. 

"  No  .  .  .  no.  .  .  We  shall  not  work  to-night," 
she  said.  "  That  was  a  pretext.  .  .  Sit  down  and 
let  us  talk.  .  .  " 

Then,  in  a  lower  voice :  — 

"  I  have  something  to  ask  of  you." 

But  what  she  had  to  say  must  have  cost  her 
much,  for  she  collected  herself  a  moment,  her 
mouth  and  eyes  half-closed  with  that  profoundly 
sorrowful  and  aged  expression  already  seen  by 
Elysee  at  moments,  which  made  her  noble  counte- 
nance seem  still  more  noble,  marked  with  all  devo- 
tions, all  sacrifices;  hollowed  in  its  pure  lines  by 
the  purest  sentiments  of  queen  and  woman.  Seen 
thus,  it  was  religious  respect  that  she  inspired.  .  . 
At  last,  summoning  all  her  courage,  but  speak- 
ing very  low,  timidly,  and  putting  her  words  one 
after  another  like  frightened  steps,  she  asked  him 
whether  he  knew  in  Paris  one  of  those  .  .  .  places 
where  .  .  .  they  lent  on  pawn.  .  . 

Ask  that  of  filysee !  a  bohemian  who  knew 
every  pawnshop  in  Paris,  who  for  twenty  years 
had  used  them  as  storerooms,  where  in  winter  he 
put  his  summer  clothes,  and  in  summer  his  winter 
ones !  He !  if  he  knew  the  clou!  if  he  knew  ma 
tante!  Remembering  his  youth,  that  argot  of 


The  Bohemia  of  Exile.  175 

poverty  coming  back  to  his  mind  made  him  smile. 
But  the  queen,  endeavouring  to  steady  her  voice, 
continued :  — 

"  I  should  like  to  confide  to  you  something  to 
carry  there  .  .  .  jewels.  .  .  One  has  moments  of  ... 
difficulty,  sometimes  .  .  ." 

And  her  beautiful  eyes,  now  raised,  revealed  an 
abyss  of  calm,  superhuman  grief .  .  .  that  anguish 
of  kings,  humiliated  grandeur ! 

"Could  it  be  done?" 

Meraut  made  a  sign  with  his  head  that  he  was 
ready  to  do  what  was  asked  of  him.  Had  he 
spoken,  he  would  have  sobbed  outright;  had  he 
made  a  movement,  it  would  have  been  to  fling 
himself  at  the  feet  of  that  august  distress.  And 
yet  his  admiration  began  to  be  affected  by  pity. 
The  queen  did  seem  to  him  a  trifle  less  exalted, 
a  little  less  above  the  vulgarities  of  life ;  as  if,  in 
the  sad  acknowledgment  she  had  now  made  to 
him,  he  had  heard  a  faint  accent  of  bohemia, 
a  something  that  was  surely  the  beginning  of  the 
fall,  something  that  brought  her  nearer  to  himself. 

Suddenly  she  rose  and  went  to  the  globe  of 
crystal,  from  which  she  took  the  ancient  discarded 
relic  and  placed  it  on  the  table,  like  a  handful  of 
jewels  of  all  colours  and  rays. 

Elysee  quivered.     "  The  crown  !  " 

"  Yes,  the  crown.  .  .  For  six  hundred  years  it 
has  belonged  to  the  house  of  Illyria.  .  .  Kings 
have  died,  floods  of  noble  blood  have  flowed  to 
defend  it.  .  .  And  now  it  must  help  us  to  exist. 
Nothing  else  remains  to  us.  .  ." 


176  Kings  in  Exile. 

It  was  indeed  a  magnificent  closed  diadem  of 
the  finest  old  gold,  the  arches  of  which,  each 
highly  ornamented,  met  above  the  cap  of  main- 
tenance made  of  scarlet  velvet.  On  these  arches 
and  around  the  circlet  of  twisted  filagree,  at  the 
heart  of  each  floret  made  in  the  shape  of  a  clover- 
leaf,  at  the  point  of  the  arcade  supporting  each 
floret,  was  every  known  variety  of  precious  stone  — 
the  transparent  blue  of  sapphires,  the  velvet  blue  of 
the  turquoise,  the  aurora  of  the  topaz,  the  flame  of 
oriental  rubies,  emeralds  like  drops  of  water  upon 
leaves,  with  the  cabalistic  opal  and  the  milky-irised 
pearl;  but  surpassing  all,  the  diamonds — strewn 
everywhere — reflected  in  their  facets  these  myriad 
hues,  and,  like  a  luminous  dispersed  dust,  a  mist 
scattered  by  the  sun,  melted  and  softened  the  dazzle 
of  the  diadem,  already  mellowed  by  long  ages  to 
the  gentle  rays  of  a  golden  lamp  in  the  depths  of  a 
sanctuary. 

The  queen  laid  her  trembling  finger  here  and 
there. 

"  These  stones  must  be  pried  out  .  .  .  the  larg- 
est .  .  ." 

"With  what?" 

They  spoke  in  whispers  like  two  criminals. 
Seeing  nothing  in  the  salon  that  would  do  that 
work,  Frederica  said  :  "  Light  me." 

They  passed  into  the  glazed  veranda,  where 
the  tall  lamp  carried  by  filyse'e  threw  fantastic 
shadows  and  a  long  stream  of  light,  which  was  lost 
outside  upon  the  lawn  in  the  darkness  of  the 
garden. 


The  Bohemia  of  Exile.  177 

"  No  ...  no  ...  not  scissors,"  she  murmured, 
seeing  that  he  looked  into  her  work-basket; 
"  they  are  not  strong  enough  ...  I  have  tried." 

They  discovered  at  last,  on  the  box  of  a  pome- 
granate tree,  the  delicate  branches  of  which  were 
seeking  the  moonlight  at  the  window  panes,  the 
gardener's  shears.  Returning  to  the  salon  Elys6e 
tried  to  extract  with  the  point  of  the  instrument 
an  enormous  sapphire  which  the  queen  pointed 
out  to  him;  but  the  stone,  solidly  set,  resisted 
and  slipped  under  the  iron,  immovable  in  its 
place.  Moreover,  the  hand  of  the  operator,  fear- 
ing to  injure  the  sapphire  or  break  the  setting 
which  bore  traces  of  previous  attempts,  was  neither 
strong  nor  sure.  The  royalist  suffered;  he  was 
shocked  by  the  outrage  he  was  made  to  com- 
mit upon  the  crown.  He  felt  it  shudder,  resist, 
writhe. 

"  I  cannot  ...  I  cannot  .  .  ."  he  said,  wiping  the 
perspiration  from  his  wet  forehead. 

The  queen  answered  :  — 

"  It  must  be  done." 

"  But  it  will  be  seen." 

A  proud  smile  of  irony  crossed  her  face. 

"  Seen !  .  .  Does  any  one  so  much  as  look  at 
it?".  .  Who  thinks  of  it,  who  cares  for  it  here, 
but  me?  .  ." 

And  while  he  returned  to  the  task,  his  pallid 
face  bent  over  it,  his  hair  in  his  eyes,  holding 
between  his  knees  the  royal  diadem  which  the  tool 
was  mangling,  Frederica,  holding  high  the  lamp 
watched  the  operation,  cold  as  the  stones  which 

12 


178  Kings  in  Exile. 

glittered,  with  scraps  of  gold  attached,  upon  the 
table-cloth,  intact  and  splendid  in  spite  of  their 
violation. 

The  next  day,  lilysee,  who  had  been  absent 
all  the  morning,  returned  after  the  last  bell  had 
rung  for  breakfast,  and  seated  himself  at  the  table, 
troubled,  agitated,  and  scarcely  mingling  in  the 
conversation  —  he  who  was  usually  the  instigator 
and  life  of  it.  His  agitation  conveyed  itself  to  the 
queen,  though  it  did  not  in  any  way  change  her 
smile  or  the  serenity  of  her  contralto  tones.  The 
meal  over,  to  was  some  time  before  they  could 
approach  each  other  so  as  to  speak  freely,  watched 
as  they  were  by  etiquette  and  the  rules  of  court- 
life  under  the  jealous  eye  of  Mme.  de  Silvis  and 
the  attendance  of  the  lady  of  honour. 

At  last  the  hour  of  lessons  came,  and  while  the 
little  prince  was  placing  himself  and  arranging  his 
books,  the  queen  asked  hurriedly :  — 

"What  is  the  matter?  What  next  will  happen 
to  me?" 

"  Ah  !  madame  ...  all  those  stones  are  false.  .  ." 

"  False !  " 

"  Very  carefully  imitated  in  paste.  .  .  How 
could  it  have  been  done?  .  .  when?  .  .  by  whom? 
There  must  be  some  criminal  in  the  house  !  .  ." 

She  paled  frightfully  at  the  word  "  criminal." 
Suddenly,  with  clenched  teeth  and  a  flash  of  anger 
and  despair  in  her  eyes,  she  said :  — 

"  It  is  true.  There  is  a  criminal  in  this  house 
.  .  .  and  you  and  I  well  know  it." 

Then,  with  a  nervous  gesture,  violently  grasping 


The  Bohemia  of  Exile.  1 79 

Meraut's  wrist  as  if  for  a  compact  known  to  them- 
selves only, — 

"  But  we  will  never  denounce  him,  will  we?  " 
"  Never !  .  .  "  he    said,  turning  away   his  eyes ; 
for,    with    a    word,   they    had    understood    each 
other. 


i8o  Kings  in  Exile. 


VII. 

POPULAR  JOYS. 

IT  was  the  afternoon  of  a  Sunday  early  in  May, 
a  splendid,  luminous  day,  in  advance  of  the  season, 
and  so  warm  that  the  landau  in  which  the  queen, 
the  little  prince,  and  his  tutor  were  taking  their 
drive  in  the  forest  of  Saint-Mande",  was  open. 
This  first  caress  of  spring,  coming  to  her  through 
the  fresh  green  branches,  warmed  the  queen's 
heart  as  it  brightened  her  face  beneath  the  silk 
of  her  sunshade.  She  felt  herself  happy,  without 
any  cause,  and  forgetting  for  some  hours  amid 
that  universal  clemency  and  sweetness  the  hard- 
ness of  her  life,  nestling  in  a  corner  of  the  heavy 
carriage,  her  child  beside  her,  she  abandoned  her- 
self in  security  and  privacy  to  a  familiar  talk  with 
£lyse"e  Me*raut,  who  sat  facing  her. 

"  It  is  singular,"  she  said  to  him,  "  how  it  seems 
to  me  that  we  had  seen  each  other  before  we  met. 
Your  voice,  your  face  at  once  awoke  in  my  mind 
an  impression  of  recollection.  Where  could  we 
have  met  for  the  first  time  ?  " 

Little  Zara  remembered  very  well  where  it  was. 
It  was  over  there,  in  the  convent,  in  that  church 
under  ground,  where  M.  filyse'e  had  so  frightened 
him.  And  in  the  timid,  gentle  look  the  boy  turned 


Popular  Joys.  1 8 1 

on  his  master  there  still  remained  something  of  his 
superstitious  fear.  .  .  But  no !  before  that  Christ- 
mas Eve  the  queen  was  sure  that  they  had  met 
each  other. 

"  Unless  it  was  in  some  former  life,"  she  added, 
almost  seriously. 

filysee  laughed. 

"  Your  Majesty  is  not  mistaken.  You  saw  me, 
not  in  another  life,  but  in  Paris,  the  day  of  your 
arrival.  I  was  opposite  to  the  hotel  des  Pyra- 
mides,  on  the  stone  base  of  the  Tuileries  railing." 

"  And  you  cried  out :  Vive  le  roi!  .  .  Now  I 
remember.  .  .  So  that  was  you  ?  Oh !  how  glad 
I  am.  .  .  It  was  you  who  gave  us  our  first  wel- 
come ...  If  you  knew  what  good  your  cry  did 
me !  .  ." 

"And  to  myself  too,"  said  M6raut.  "  It  was  so 
long  since  I  had  had  a  chance  to  utter  it,  that 
triumphant  cry  of  Vive  le  roi!  .  .  So  long  that 
it  sang  to  me  on  my  lips !  .  .  It  was  our  family 
cry;  associated  with  all  my  joys  of  childhood  and 
of  youth,  —  the  cry  in  which  at  home  we  summed 
up  all  beliefs  and  all  emotions.  That  cry  brings 
back  to  me  the  Southern  accent,  the  gesture,  the 
very  voice  of  my  father;  it  forces  to  my  eyes 
the  moisture  I  have  seen  in  his  so  often.  .  .  Poor 
man !  in  him  it  was  instinctive ;  a  profession  of 
faith.  .  .  One  day,  crossing  Paris  on  his  return 
from  a  visit  to  Frohsdorf,  he  entered  the  Car- 
rousel as  Louis  Philippe  was  about  to  go  out. 
People  were  loitering  about,  glued  to  the  iron 
railings,  indifferent,  even  hostile,  - —  the  populace  of 


1 82  Kings  in  Exile. 

the  close  of  his  reign.  My  father,  hearing  that 
the  king  would  pass,  pushed  and  jostled  his  way 
through  the  crowd  to  the  front  rank,  that  he  might 
eye,  and  insult  with  his  contempt  that  brigand, 
that  beggar  of  a  Louis  Philippe  who  had  stolen 
the  place  of  legitimacy.  .  .  Suddenly  the  king 
appeared,  crossed  the  empty  courtyard  amid  a 
death-like  silence,  an  oppressive  silence,  crushing 
the  very  palace,  in  which  one  seemed  to  hear 
distinctly  the  cocking  of  rebel  muskets  and  the 
cracking  of  the  planks  of  the  throne.  .  .  Louis 
Philippe  was  old,  very  bourgeois,  and  he  walked 
toward  the  gateway  umbrella  in  hand,  with 
short  little  shambling  steps.  Nothing  of  the  sov- 
ereign, nothing  of  the  master.  But  my  father  did 
not  see  him  as  he  was ;  and  at  the  thought  that  in 
the  great  palace  of  the  kings  of  France,  paved  with 
glorious  memories,  the  representative  of  monarchy 
should  pass  through  that  frightful  silence  and  soli- 
tude forced  on  kings  by  the  hatred  of  their  people, 
something  arose  and  revolted  within  him ;  he  for- 
got his  rancour  and,  baring  his  head  instinctively, 
he  cried,  or  rather  he  sobbed  out  a  Vive  le  roi ! 
so  ringing,  so  profoundly  felt,  that  the  old  man 
quivered  and  thanked  him  with  a  long  look  full 
of  emotion." 

"  That  is  how  I,  too,  should  have  thanked  you," 
said  Frederica,  and  her  eyes  fixed  themselves  on 
Meraut  with  such  tender  gratitude  that  the  poor 
fellow  felt  himself  turn  pale.  But  she  added  im- 
mediately, full  of  the  tale  to  which  she  had  just 
listened:  — 


Popular  Joys.  183 

"  And  yet  your  father  was  not  a  man  of  the 
nobility?  " 

"  Oh !  no,  madame  ...  all  that  is  most  humble, 
most  common  ...  a  journeyman  weaver." 

"  That  is  singular,"  she  said  reflectively. 

And  he  answering  her,  an  endless  subject  of 
discussion  between  them  began  again.  The  queen 
did  not  like,  and  did  not  understand  the  people ; 
she  had,  in  fact,  a  sort  of  physical  horror  of  them. 
She  thought  them  brutal;  alarming  in  their  joys 
as  they  were  in  their  vengeance.  Even  during  the 
fetes  of  the  coronation,  that  honey-moon  of  her 
reign,  she  feared  them,  feared  those  myriads  of 
hands  stretched  out  to  acclaim  her,  in  which, 
nevertheless,  she  felt  herself  a  prisoner.  Never 
had  the  two  understood  each  other ;  favours,  gifts, 
charities  had  fallen  from  her  to  her  people  like 
one  of  those  blighted  harvests  when  the  wheat  will 
not  ripen,  although  no  positive  blame  can  be  laid 
to  the  seed  or  the  soil. 

Among  the  fairy-tales  with  which  Mme.  de 
Silvis  etherealized  the  mind  of  the  little  prince,  was 
the  story  of  a  Syrian  young  lady  married  to  a  lion, 
who  felt  a  horrible  dread  of  her  savage  husband, 
his  roars,  and  his  violent  fashion  of  shaking  his 
mane.  Nevertheless,  he  was  full  of  attentions  and 
loving  delicacy,  that  poor  lion.  He  brought  to 
his  child-wife  the  rarest  game,  and  honey-comb, 
he  watched  while  she  slept,  and  made  the  sea  and 
the  forests  and  the  animals  keep  silence.  In  spite 
of  all  that  she  kept  her  repugnance,  her  insulting 
dread,  until  one  day  the  lion  got  angry  and  roared 


184  Kings  in  Exile. 

to  her  a  terrible  "  Begone !  "  his  jaws  open,  his 
mane  erect,  as  if  he  were  more  inclined  to  devour 
her  than  to  let  her  go.  This  was  somewhat  the 
story  of  Frederica  and  her  people ;  and  ever  since 
Elysee  had  lived  beside  her  he  had  endeavoured, 
but  in  vain,  to  make  her  admit  the  hidden  good- 
ness, the  chivalric  devotion,  the  savage  suscepti- 
bilities of  that  great  lion  that  roared  so  many 
times  in  play  before  he  roared  in  anger.  Ah !  if 
kings  only  would.  .  .  If  they  showed  themselves 
less  distrustful.  .  .  And  then,  as  Frederica  shook 
her  sunshade  with  an  incredulous  air  he  added : 

"  Yes,  I  know  it  well  .  .  .  the  people  frighten 
you.  .  .  You  do  not  love  them,  or  rather  you  do 
not  know  them.  But  if  your  Majesty  would  look 
about  you  ...  in  these  alleys,  under  these  trees.  .  . 
And  yet  this  is  the  most  dangerous  suburb  in 
Paris  which  is  walking  about  and  amusing  itself 
here,  the  suburb  from  which  revolutions  issue  and 
barricade  themselves  in  the  torn-up  streets.  See 
what  a  simple,  kind,  and  natural,  and  na'fve  expres- 
sion these  people  have  !  how  they  enjoy  the  com- 
fort of  a  day  of  rest,  and  the  sunny  weather.  .  ." 

From  the  wide  avenue  through  which  the  landau 
was  slowly  passing  they  could  see  beneath  the 
trees  and  shrubbery,  on  the  ground  all  violet  with 
the  first  wild  hyacinths,  breakfasts  laid  out,  white 
plates  spotting  the  grass,  baskets  with  gaping 
covers,  and  the  thick  glasses  of  the  wine-merchants 
sunk  among  the  greenery  of  early  buds  like 
peonies ;  shawls  and  blouses  were  hanging  to  the 
branches,  women  were  in  their  home  gowns,  men 


Popular  Joys.  185 

in  their  shirt-sleeves;  some  reading,  some  taking 
their  siesta,  the  more  industrious  were  sewing, 
their  backs  to  the  trunks  of  the  trees,  and  through 
the  joyous  glades  fluttered  the  ends  of  humble 
stuffs,  some  in  a  game  of  shuttle-cock,  or  blind- 
man's  buff,  others  in  an  improvised  quadrille  to 
the  sounds  of  an  invisible  orchestra  which  came  in 
gusts.  And  the  children  !  quantities  of  children  ! 
making  common  cause  with  sugar-plums  and 
games ;  running  together  from  one  family  to  an- 
other, jumping,  shouting,  filling  the  whole  wood 
with  one  vast  warble  of  swallows;  their  endless 
coming  and  going  having  the  same  bird-like  rapid- 
ity, caprice,  and  shadowy  fluttering  in  the  light 
among  the  branches.  This  wood  of  Vincennes  — 
contrasting  with  that  of  Boulogne,  —  which  is 
always  neat,  brushed-up  and  protected  by  rustic 
fences  —  seemed  expressly  prepared  for  the  pas- 
time of  the  people  making  holiday,  with  its  paths 
all  free,  its  turf,  though  trodden,  green,  and  its 
trees,  bending  but  resistant,  as  if  nature  were  here 
more  perennial,  more  clement. 

Suddenly,  at  a  turn  of  the  avenue,  a  burst  of  air 
and  of  light  from  the  lake  which  parted  the  wood 
with  its  grassy  banks,  drew  a  cry  of  enthusiasm 
from  the  little  prince.  The  scene  was  indeed 
superb ;  like  that  of  the  ocean  suddenly  appearing 
through  the  stony  labyrinth  of  a  Breton  village 
and  bringing  its  tide  to  the  very  foot  of  its  farthest 
street.  Boats  with  banners,  filled  with  rowers 
making  lively  spots  of  blue  or  red,  ploughed  the 
lake  in  all  directions  with  the  silvery  furrows  of 


1 86  Kings  in  Exile. 

their  oars,  the  white  foam  flashing  into  shoals  of 
little  waves.  Flocks  of  ducks  swam  quacking; 
swans,  with  nobler  mien,  followed  the  long  circuit 
of  the  shore,  their  light  plumes  ruffled  by  the 
breeze;  while,  in  the  distance,  masked  by  the 
green  curtain  of  an  isle,  an  orchestra  sent  through 
the  whole  wood  a  joyous  harmony,  to  which  the 
surface  of  the  lake  served  as  a  sounding-board. 

And  with  it  all,  a  gay  disorder,  the  sparkle  of 
breeze  and  wave,  the  flapping  of  banners,  the  calls 
of  boatmen,  the  circling  banks  with  seated  groups 
and  scampering  children,  and  two  little  noisy  cafes 
built  almost  into  the  water,  their  wooden  floors 
sonorous  as  a  deck,  and  their  open  walls  present- 
ing the  idea  of  a  bath-house  or  a  ferry-boat.  .  . 
Carriages  were  few  around  the  lake.  Every  now 
and  then  came  a  hackney-coach  loaded,  the  day 
after  a  wedding, .  with  a  faubourg  bridal  party, 
,  easily  recognized  by  the  new  cloth  of  the  frock- 
coats  and  the  showy  arabesques  of  the  shawls ;  or 
else  the  char-a-bancs  of  business  houses  bearing 
their  signs  in  gilded  letters,  and  filled  with  stout 
women  in  flowery  bonnets,  who  gazed  with  an  air 
of  pity  at  the  humbler  pedestrians  tramping  the 
sand.  But  what  was  chiefly  noticeable  were  the 
little  baby-carriages,  that  first  luxury  of  the  work- 
man with  a  home;  those  walking  cradles,  where 
little  heads  in  ruffled  caps  wabbled  so  blessedly, 
preparing  to  sleep,  their  eyes  uplifted  to  the 
tracery  of  branches  on  the  sky. 

Amid   this   promenading     of    the    people,   the 
equipage  with  the  arms  of  Illyria,  its  horses  and 


Popular  Joys.  187 

its  liveries,  did  not  pass  without  exciting  a  cer- 
tain wonder,  Frederica  having  never  driven  there 
before  except  on  a  week-day.  People  nudged 
one  another.  Families  of  workmen  in  bands,  silent 
in  the  embarrassment  of  Sunday-clothes,  drew 
aside  at  the  sound  of  wheels,  and  then,  turning 
round,  did  not  check  their  enthusiasm  at  the  noble 
beauty  of  the  queen  beside  the  aristocratic  child- 
hood of  Zara;  and  sometimes  a  bold  little  face 
peeped  out  from  the  bushes  to  say:  "  Bonjour, 
madame.  .  ."  Was  it  FJyseVs  words,  or  the  splen- 
did weather,  and  the  gayety  of  the  whole  scene 
stretching  to  the  horizon  now  left  rural  by  the  silent 
manufactories,  or  was  it  the  cordiality  of  these  little 
encounters?  Frederica  was  conscious  of  a  sort  of 
sympathy  with  this  Sunday  of  workmen,  nearly  all 
of  them  made  spruce  with  a  touching  cleanliness, 
considering  the  nature  of  their  hard  toil  and  the 
shortness  of  their  leisure.  As  for  Zara,  he  would 
not  be  quiet,  quivering  and  stamping  in  the  car- 
riage ;  he  wanted  to  get  out,  to  roll  with  the  others 
on  the  lawns,  and  to  row  in  the  boats. 

Meantime  the  landau  had  reached  less  noisy 
avenues,  where  people  were  reading,  or  sleeping 
on  the  benches,  or  passing  beneath  the  copses  in 
close-pressed  couples.  Here  the  shadows  held  a 
little  mystery,  —  the  cooling  freshness  of  springs, 
the  true  exhalations  of  a  forest.  Birds  were 
chirping  in  the  branches.  But  the  farther  they 
advanced  from  the  lake,  where  noise  had  so  far 
concentrated,  the  echoes  of  another  fete  were 
heard  distinctly;  the  sound  of  firearms,  the  roll 


1 88  Kings  in  Exile. 

of  drums,  the  blare  of  trumpets,  and  the  ringing  of 
bells,  —  all  detaching  themselves  from  a  great 
clamour  which  suddenly  passed  athwart  the  sun 
like  a  smoke.  One  might  really  have  thought  it 
the  sack  of  a  city. 

"What  is  that?  What  is  it  I  hear?"  cried  the 
little  prince. 

"The  gingerbread  fair,  Monseigneur,"  said  the 
old  coachman,  turning  round  upon  the  box ;  and 
as  the  queen  consented  to  go  nearer  to  the  merry- 
making, the  carriage  left  the  park  and  threaded  its 
way  through  a  crowd  of  narrow  streets  and  roads 
only  half  built-up,  where  new  houses  of  six  storeys 
stood  side  by  side  with  miserable  huts,  between 
market-gardens  and  stable  gutters.  .  .  Everywhere 
were  drinking-shops  and  arbours,  with  their  little 
tables  and  their  springboards,  painted  invariably 
of  the  same  vile  green.  All  were  overflowing  with 
people,  the  shakos  of  artillery-men,  and  the  white- 
gloved  military  in  crowds.  No  noise.  They  lis- 
tened to  the  wandering  harpist  or  violinist  who, 
having  permission  to  play  among  the  tables,  was 
scraping  out  an  air  of  the  Favorita  or  the  Trova- 
tore ;  for  this  scoffer  of  a  people,  this  populace  of 
Paris  adores  the  sentimental  and  pays  liberally  to 
its  music  if  amused. 

Suddenly  the  landau  stopped.  Carriages  can  go 
no  farther  than  the  entrance  to  the  great  public 
promenade  of  Vincennes,  along  which  the  fair  is 
held,  having  at  its  end  towards  Paris  the  two 
columns  of  the  Barriere  du  Trone,  which  rise  above 
the  dusty  atmosphere  of  the  suburb.  What  was 


Popular  Joys.  189 

seen  from  that  point,  namely,  the  swarming  of  a 
great  crowd  in  the  midst  of  a  veritable  street  of 
enormous  booths,  lighted  up  the  eyes  of  little  Zara 
with  such  an  eager  craving  of  childish  curiosity 
that  the  queen  proposed  to  leave  the  carriage. 
This  desire  of  the  proud  Frederica  to  go  on  foot 
in  the  dust  of  a  Sunday  was  so  extraordinary,  and 
Elysee  was  so  amazed,  that  he  hesitated. 

"  Is  there  any  danger  ?  " 

"  Oh !  not  the  slightest,  madame.  .  .  Only,  if 
we  go  upon  the  fair  ground  it  would  be  better  that 
no  one  accompanied  us.  The  livery  would  make 
you  too  noticeable." 

At  the  queen's  order,  the  tall  footman,  who  was 
preparing  to  follow  them,  resumed  his  place  upon 
the  box,  and  it  was  arranged  that  the  carriage 
should  wait  where  it  was.  Assuredly  they  did  not 
expect  to  make  the  round  of  the  fair ;  a  few  steps 
in  front  of  the  first  booths  would  be  all. 

Near  the  entrance  were  movable  little  benches 
and  a  table  covered  with  a  white  cloth,  on  which 
were  games,  mechanical  inventions.  People  passed 
them  disdainfully,  without  stopping.  Next  came 
frying-stoves  in  full  blast,  surrounded  by  an  acrid 
smell  of  burning  grease,  with  great  flames  rising 
pink  in  the  sunlight,  around  which  scullions  in  white 
aprons  were  busy  behind  mounds  of  sugared 
fritters.  Then  came  the  makers  of  marsh-mallow 
paste,  twisting  into  gigantic  rings  the  snow-white 
compound  that  smells  of  almonds.  .  .  The  little 
prince  gazed  at  all  this  in  stupor;  it  was  so  new  to 
him,  the  little  caged  birdling,  bred  in  the  lofty 


190  Kings  in  Exile. 

chambers  of  a  castle,  behind  the  gilded  railings  of 
a  park,  in  the  midst  of  alarms  and  terrors ;  never 
going  out  unless  accompanied,  and  never  seeing 
the  populace  unless  from  a  balcony  or  from  a  car- 
riage surrounded  by  guards.  Intimidated  at  first, 
he  pressed  against  his  mother  and  held  her  tightly 
by  the  hand ;  but,  little  by  little,  he  grew  intoxi- 
cated by  the  noise  and  the  odour  of  the  fete.  The 
tunes  upon  the  barrel-organs  excited  him.  A 
wild  desire  to  run,  that  made  him  drag  Frederica 
along,  was  checked  only  by  the  desire  to  stop 
everywhere,  and  yet  to  go  farther  still  "  over 
there,"  where  the  noise  was  loudest,  and  the 
crowd  more  dense. 

Thus,  without  perceiving  it,  they  were  soon 
quite  far  from  their  point  of  departure,  with  a 
swimmer's  lack  of  sensation  that  the  tide  is  carry- 
ing him  out,  and  all  the  more  easily  because  no 
one  noticed  them.  Amid  those  gaudy  costumes, 
the  simple  toilet  of  the  queen  in  shades  of  fawn, 
gown,  mantle,  and  hat  in  harmony,  passed  unper- 
ceived,  as  did  the  quiet  elegance  of  Zara,  whose 
great  starched  collar  and  short  jacket  and  bare 
legs  only  made  a  few  good  women  turn  and  say: 
"That's  an  English  boy."  He  walked  between  his 
mother  and  £lys6e,  who  smiled  to  each  other  above 
his  joy.  "  Oh  !  mother,  see  that !  .  .  Monsieur 
filysee,  what  are  they  doing  over  there?  Do  let 
us  go  and  see ! "  And  from  one  side  of  the 
road  to  the  other  in  curious  zigzags  they  plunged 
farther  and  still  farther  into  the  crowd,  following 
its  tidal  way. 


Popular  Joys.  191 

"  Suppose  we  go  back,"  proposed  filyse'e ;  but 
no,  the  child  was  beside  himself.  He  entreated, 
he  pulled  his  mother's  hand ;  and  she,  so  happy  in 
seeing  her  little  torpid  one  alive,  and  herself  ex- 
cited by  this  popular  fermentation,  went  on  and 
on  still  farther.  .  . 

The  day  became  warmer,  as  if  the  sun  in  going 
down  were  gathering  all  its  rays  into  a  threat  of 
storm.  As  the  skies  changed,  the  fete  with  its 
myriad  colours  took  on  a  fairy  aspect.  T  was  the 
hour  for  parading.  All  the  employes  of  the  cir- 
cuses and  the  booths  came  out  beneath  the  awn- 
ings of  their  entrances,  in  front  of  those  canvas 
signs  swelling  in  the  breeze  till  the  gigantic  beasts 
and  gymnasts  and  hercules  painted  thereon  ap- 
peared to  be  alive.  This  was  the  parade  of  a 
grand  military  show,  displaying  the  costumes  of 
Charles  IX.  and  Louis  XV.,  arquebuses,  rifles,  wigs, 
and  plumes  mingling  together,  the  Marseillaise 
sounding  from  a  brass  band,  while  the  young 
horses  of  the  circus,  held  by  white  reins  as  in 
a  bridal  procession,  executed  clever  steps,  calcu- 
lated with  their  hoofs,  and  bowed  to  the  company. 
On  the  opposite  side,  a  booth  of  regular  mounte- 
banks were  exhibiting  a  clown  in  his  checked 
garments,  with  shrivelled  little  Aztecs  in  tights, 
and  a  tall,  swarthy  girl,  dressed  as  a  danseuse, 
who  juggled  with  gold  and  silver  balls,  bottles,  and 
knives  with  shining  pewter  blades,  all  jingling  and 
crossing  one  another  above  the  tall  erection  of  her 
hair,  held  up  by  glass-bead  pins. 

The  little  prince  was  lost  in  endless  contempla- 


192  Kings  in  Exile. 

tion  before  this  beautiful  being,  when  a  queen,  a 
real  queen,  such  as  she  appears  in  fairy-tales,  with 
a  brilliant  crown,  a  short  tunic  of  silvered  gauze, 
her  legs  crossed  one  upon  the  other,  suddenly 
appeared  leaning  on  the  balustrade.  Zara  would 
never  have  tired  of  looking  at  her  if  the  orchestra 
had  not  slightly  distracted  his  attention,  —  an  ex- 
traordinary orchestra,  composed,  not  of  French 
guards,  nor  of  gymnasts  in  flesh-coloured  tights, 
but  of  gentlemen,  real  gentlemen,  with  short 
whiskers,  shining  skulls,  and  dress  boots,  who 
deigned  to  play  on  horns  and  trumpets  while  a 
lady,  yes,  a  veritable  lady,  with  a  little  of  Mme.  de 
Silvis'  solemnity,  in  a  silk  mantle  and  a  bonnet 
with  nodding  flowers,  looked  with  an  indifferent 
air  to  right  and  left,  her  arms  being  tossed 
about  till  the  fringes  of  her  mantle  caught  the 
roses  of  her  hat.  Who  knows  ?  Some  other  royal 
family  fallen  into  grief.  .  .  But  the  fair-ground 
presented  many  other  things  equally  astonishing. 
In  a  vast  and  perpetually  varied  panorama,  bears 
were  dancing  at  the  end  of  their  chains,  negroes 
were  running  about  in  linen  drawers,  devils  and 
devilesses  in  crimson  bandannas;  the  wrestlers 
gesticulated ;  famous  tumblers,  one  hand  on  their 
hip,  waved  above  the  heads  of  the  crowd  the 
breeches  destined  for  the  amateur;  a  fencing- 
mistress  in  coat-of-mail,  red  stockings  with  gold 
clocks,  her  face  covered  by  a  mask,  her  hands  in 
leathern  gauntlets,  was  there ;  and  a  man  dressed 
in  black  velvet  who  resembled  Columbus,  or 
Copernicus,  describing  magic  circles  with  a  dia- 


Popular  Joys.  193 

mond-handled  whip ;  while  from  behind  the  line 
of  booths  came  a  sickly  odour  of  hides  and  the 
roaring  of  wild  beasts  in  the  Garel  menagerie. 
All  these  living  curiosities  were  blended  with  the 
pictured  ones,  —  gigantic  women  in  ball  costume, 
their  shoulders  exposed,  their  arms  in  short  eider- 
down sleeves  and  gloves  tightly  buttoned ;  sil- 
houettes of  seated  somnambulists,  looking  with 
bandaged  eyes  into  the  future ;  a  doctor  near-by 
with  a  black  beard;  abnormal  beings,  accidents  of 
nature,  eccentricities,  oddities  of  all  kinds,  some- 
times sheltered  by  only  two  great  sheets  held 
up  by  a  rope,  with  the  money-box  for  the  receipts 
on  a  chair  at  the  entrance. 

Everywhere,  at  every  step,  was  the  king  of  the 
revels,  Gingerbread,  under  every  aspect,  every 
form,  in  scarlet  boots  with  golden  fringes,  wrapped 
in  glossy  painted  papers,  tied  with  favours,  deco- 
rated with  sweetmeats  and  burnt  almonds,  —  Gin- 
gerbread in  flat,  grotesque  figures  representing 
the  Parisian  celebrities  of  the  day,  the  lover  of 
Amanda,  Prince  Queue-de-Poule  with  his  insep- 
arable Rigolo,  —  Gingerbread  hawked  in  baskets 
and  on  portable  benches,  diffusing  also  a  good  smell 
of  honey  and  cooked  fruits  through  the  crowds  who 
were  slowly  and  tightly  moving  onward,  circula- 
tion being  now  very  difficult. 

Impossible  to  return  upon  their  steps.  They 
were  forced  to  follow  that  despotic  current,  to  ad- 
vance, to  retreat;  unconsciously  impelled  toward 
this  booth  and  then  to  that,  because  the  living 
flood  which  presses  together  in  the  middle  of  a 

13 


194  Kings  in  Exile. 

space  is  always  seeking  to  flow  away  at  the  sides 
without  the  possibility  of  issue.  Laughter  broke 
forth  and  jokes  in  this  continual  and  enforced 
elbowing.  The  queen  had  never  seen  the  People 
so  near.  Encountering  thus  its  very  breath  and 
the  rough  contact  of  its  shoulders,  she  was  amazed 
to  find  that  she  felt  neither  terror  nor  disgust. 
She  advanced  like  the  others,  with  that  hesitating 
step  of  a  crowd  which  seems  like  the  murmur  of  a 
march,  and  keeps,  if  carriages  are  absent,  a  sort  of 
rhythmic  solemnity.  The  good-humour  of  all  these 
people  reassured  her,  and  also  the  exuberant  gayety 
of  her  son  and  the  quantity  of  baby-carriages  which 
continued  their  way  in  the  thick  of  it  all.  "  Don't 
push  !  .  .  see,  there's  a  child  !  "  Not  one  child,  but 
ten,  twenty,  hundreds,  carried  by  mothers  in  their 
arms,  or  by  fathers  on  their  backs ;  and  Frederica 
turned  a  kindly  smile  when  one  of  these  little  popu- 
lace heads  of  her  own  boy's  age  went  past.her. 

filysee,  however,  began  to  be  uneasy.  He  knew 
what  a  crowd  really  is,  however  calm  it  may  be 
apparently,  and  the  real  danger  of  its  eddies  and 
tides.  If  one  of  those  big  black  clouds  overhead 
were  to  burst  in  rain,  what  a  rush  !  what  a  panic  ! 
His  imagination,  always  at  boiling  point,  represented 
to  his  mind  the  scene,  the  horrible  suffocation  of 
body  to  body,  the  crushing  on  the  Place  Louis  XV., 
that  dangerous  massing  of  a  whole  people  in  the 
midst  of  a  broad  city,  not  two  steps  from  immense 
deserted  avenues  it  is  unable  to  reach.  .  . 

Between  his  mother  and  his  tutor  who  protected 
him,  the  little  prince  became  very  hot.  He  com- 


Popular  Joys.  195 

plained  that  he  could  see  nothing.     Then,  like  the 
workmen  around  them,  Meraut  lifted  Zara  to  his 
shoulder,  which  produced  an  explosion  of  joy,  for 
from  that  height,  of  course,  the  view  of  the  fete  was 
splendid.     On  the  western  sky,  rayed  with  jets  of 
light  and    great  floating  shadows,  in  the  far  per- 
spective, between  the  two  columns  of  the  Barriere, 
were  lines  of  palpitating  flags  and  oriflammes  and 
the  flapping  canvas  of  the  booth  fronts.     The  airy 
wheels    of    gigantic    merry-go-rounds    lifted   their 
little  cars,  each  filled  with   people;    an  immense 
"  chevaux-de-bois  "  in  three  stages,  varnished  and 
coloured  like  a  toy,  turned  mechanically,  with  its 
lions,  leopards,  and  fantastic  tarasgues,  on  which 
the  children   sat   as   stiff  as  puppets.      Close  by 
were  struggling  clusters  of  little  red  balloons ;  in- 
numerable whirling  mills  of  yellow  paper,  looking 
like  artificial  suns;    and  above  the  crowd,  gazing 
down  upon  it,  quantities  of  little  heads  like  Zara's, 
erect,  in  a  cloud  of  golden  vapour.     The  rays  of 
the  setting  sun,  now  paling,  left  upon  the  clouds 
brilliant   layers   of  reflections,  which    lighted    all 
objects  and  shaded  them  in  turn,  giving  an  added 
movement  to  the  scene.    Here,  they  struck  a  Pier- 
rot and  a  Columbine,  two  white  spots  fluttering  be- 
fore each  other  —  pantomime  in  chalk  on  the  black 
ground  of  a  mountebank's  platform  —  there,  a  lank, 
stooping  harlequin,  wearing  the  pointed  hat  of  a 
Greek  shepherd  and  making  believe  to  push  into 
his  booth,  like  loaves  into  an  oven,  the  crowd  that 
are  flowing  past  the  steps  of  it.     He  has  a  big, 
wide-opened  mouth,  that  harlequin,  and  he  must 


196  Kings  in  Exile. 

be  shouting,  roaring;  but  he  is  not  heard  any 
more  than  the  furious  ringing  of  that  bell  at  the 
corner  of  a  platform,  or  the  discharge  of  muskets 
of  which  the  smoke  and  the  muzzles  can  be  seen. 
All  is  lost  in  the  stupendous  clamour  of  the  fair, 
clamour  of  an  element  composed  of  the  "tutti," 
discordant  and  general,  rattles,  jew's-harps,  gongs, 
drums,  speaking-trumpets,  roars  of  wild-beasts, 
Barbary  barrel-organs,  and  the  shrieking  of  steam- 
whistles.  The  prize  was  to  him  who  employed  —  to 
attract  the  crowd,  as  bees  are  caught  by  noise  — 
the  loudest  and  most  persistent  instrument ;  while 
from  swings  and  merry-go-rounds  fell  other  shrieks, 
and  over  all  this  frantic  racket  rose,  every  fifteen 
minutes,  the  whistle  of  the  trams  on  the  circuit 
railway  as  they  passed  the  fair. 

Suddenly  the  fatigue,  the  stifling  odour  of  this 
human  mass,  the  dazzle  of  that  five  o'clock  sun, 
oblique  and  hot,  in  which  so  many  vibrating,  glit- 
tering things  were  twirling,  turned  the  queen  giddy 
and  made  her  stop,  half-fainting.  She  had  only 
time  to  catch  the  arm  of  filys^e  and  save  herself 
from  falling ;  and  as  she  leaned  there,  clinging  to  it, 
erect  and  pale,  she  murmured  very  low :  "  Nothing, 
nothing;  this  is  nothing!  .  ."  But  her  head,  or 
her  nerves,  beat  painfully,  and  her  body,  losing  the 
sensation  of  existence,  gave  way  for  an  instant  .  .  . 
Oh !  he  will  never  forget  it,  that  one  instant !  .  . 

It  was  over.  Frederica  again  was  strong.  A 
breath  of  cool  air  upon  her  forehead  quickly  re- 
vived her,  but  she  did  not  relax  her  hold  on  his 
protecting  arm;  and  that  queenly  step  conform- 


Popular  Joys.  197 

ing  to  his  own,  that  glove  resting  warmly  upon 
him,  caused  an  inexpressible  trouble  in  filysee's 
breast.  The  danger,  the  crowd,  Paris,  the  fete,  he 
thought  no  more  of  them.  He  was  in  the  land 
impossible ;  where  dreams  are  realized  with  all  their 
magic,  all  their  visionary  extravagance.  Buried 
in  that  mass  of  the  populace,  he  walked  without 
seeing  it,  without  hearing  it,  borne  by  a  vapour  that 
enveloped  him  to  the  eyes,  impelled  him,  sustained 
him  and  led  him  unconsciously  from  the  fair  to  the 
avenue.  .  .  There  at  last  he  returned  to  earth  and 
knew  himself.  .  .  The  queen's  carriage  was  too  far 
off  to  be  regained.  They  were  forced  to  go  on  foot 
to  the  chateau,  following  in  the  fading  light  the 
wider  paths  and  the  streets  lined  with  little  cafes 
full  of  a  merry  people  making  holiday.  It  was  a 
veritable  escapade;  but  neither  of  them  thought 
much  about  the  strangeness  of  their  return.  Little 
Zara  talked,  and  talked,  as  children  do  after  a  fete, 
in  haste  to  express  with  their  little  lips  all  they 
have  amassed  by  their  eyes  of  images,  ideas,  events. 
£lys6e  and  the  queen  were  silent,  —  he  quivering 
still,  seeking  to  recall  and  yet  to  escape  that  deli- 
cious, penetrating  moment  which  revealed  to  him 
the  secret,  the  sad  secret  of  his  life.  Frederica 
was  thinking  of  all  she  had  seen,  so  novel  and 
hitherto  unknown  to  her.  For  the  first  time  in  her 
life  she  had  felt  the  beating  of  the  heart  of  the 
people;  she  had  laid  her  head  on  the  lion's 
shoulder.  An  impression  remained  to  her,  both 
strong  and  sweet,  a  clasp,  as  it  were,  of  tenderness 
and  of  protection. 


198  Kings  in  Exile. 


VIII. 

THE   GRAND  STROKE. 

THE  door  shut  brusquely,  autocratically,  send- 
ing from  one  end  to  the  other  of  the  Agency  a 
puff  of  air  which  swelled  the  blue  veils  and  the 
mackintoshes,  and  waved  the  bills  in  the  fingers 
of  the  clerks,  and  the  little  feathers  in  the  hats  of 
the  tourist  ladies.  Hands  were  extended,  heads 
inclined ;  J.  Tom  Levis  had  entered  the  establish- 
ment. A  circular  smile,  two  or  three  very  brief 
orders  to  the  accountant,  the  time  to  ask,  in  a  loud, 
exulting  tone,  whether  "  the  package  had  been  sent 
to  Monseigneur  the  Prince  of  Wales,"  and  he  was 
already  in  his  cabinet,  while  the  clerks  signalled  to 
one  another  with  many  winks  the  extraordinary 
good-humour  of  their  master.  Undoubtedly  some- 
thing new  was  going  on.  The  peaceful  Se"phora 
herself  became  aware  of  it  behind  her  railings,  and 
asked  gently,  as  Tom  entered :  — 

"What  is  it?" 

"  Things  !  "  he  replied  with  a  great  silent  laugh, 
and  his  roll  of  the  eye  on  important  occasions. 

He  made  a  sign  to  his  wife :  — • 

"  Come  !  .  ." 

Together  they  descended  the  fifteen  steep  and 
narrow  stairs  brass-bound  which  led  to  a  little 


The  Grand  Stroke.  199 

boudoir  underground,  very  coquettishly  carpeted 
and  hung,  with  a  divan,  a  duchesse-dressing-table, 
lighted  constantly  with  gas,  the  little  port-hole  on 
the  Rue  Royale  being  glazed  with  ground  glass  as 
thick  as  a  piece  of  horn.  From  there  they  could 
communicate  with  the  cellars  and  the  courtyard, 
an  arrangement  which  enabled  Tom  to  enter  and 
leave  the  Agency  without  being  seen,  and  so  avoid 
bores  and  creditors,  who  are  called  in  Paris  "  paves," 
that  is  to  say,  persons  or  things  that  obstruct  cir- 
culation. With  affairs  as  complicated  as  those  of 
the  Agency,  such  Comanche  craft  was  indispensa- 
ble. Without  it,  life  would  be  spent  in  quarrels 
and  lawsuits. 

Tom's  oldest  employes,  men  who  had  served  him 
for  five  or  six  months,  had  never  descended  into 
this  mysterious  sub-salon,  where  S6phora  alone  had 
the  right  to  enter.  It  was  the  private  nook  of  the 
agent,  his  interior,  his  conscience,  the  cocoon  from 
which  he  issued  transformed,  —  something  like  the 
dressing-room  of  an  actor,  to  which,  indeed,  the 
boudoir  at  this  moment  bore  a  strong  resemblance, 
with  its  gas  jets  lighting  the  marble,  the  furbelowed 
hangings,  and  the  singular  transformation  which  J. 
Tom  Levis  was  now  accomplishing.  With  a  twirl 
of  his  hand  he  opened  his  long  English  frock- 
coat  and  flung  it  away,  then  one  waistcoat,  then 
another,  the  many-coloured  waistcoats  of  a  circus- 
man  ;  he  unwound  the  dozen  yards  of  white  muslin 
that  formed  his  cravat,  the  flannel  bandages  that 
wrapped  his  waist  and  formed  that  majestic  and 
apoplectic  rotundity  which  drove  about  Paris  in  the 


2OO  Kings  in  Exile. 

first  and  only  hansom  known  there  at  that  period, 
and  issued,  all  of  a  sudden,  with  an  "  ouf"  of  satis- 
faction, a  lean  and  wiry  little  man,  looking  like  a 
spool  unwound,  a  frightful  blackguard  of  quinqua- 
genary  Paris,  who  might  have  been  saved  from  a 
fire  or  dragged  from  a  lime-kiln,  with  the  scars, 
seams,  and  baldness  of  his  baking;  and  yet,  in 
spite  of  all,  with  an  air  of  juvenility,  of  rollicking 
boyhood,  of  the  old  mobile  guard  of  '48,  in  short, 
the  true  Tom  Levis ;  in  other  words,  Narcisse 
Poitou,  son  of  an  upholsterer  in  the  Rue  de 
rOrillon. 

Growing  up  among  the  shavings  of  the  paternal 
establishment  until  he  was  ten  years  old,  from  ten 
to  fifteen  taught  by  the  "  Mutuelle  "  and  the  street, 
that  incomparable  school  under  the  open  sky, 
Narcisse  very  early  felt  within  himself  a  horror 
of  the  people  and  of  manual  employments,  and 
at  the  same  time,  a  passionate  imagination,  which 
the  Parisian  gutter  with  the  anomalous  masses  it 
sweeps  along  had  fed  better  than  no  matter  what 
progression  through  the  schools.  While  still  a 
child,  he  invented  projects  and  planned  business. 
Later  this  faculty  for  dreaming  hindered  him  in 
fixing  his  powers  and  making  them  productive. 
He  travelled,  and  undertook  all  sorts  of  employ- 
ments. Miner  in  Australia,  squatter  in  America, 
actor  in  Batavia,  bailiff  at  Brussels,  —  making  debts 
in  both  hemispheres,  and  leaving  the  stones  that 
pave  hell  in  all  four  quarters  of  the  universe.  He 
finally  settled  as  broker  in  London,  where  he  lived 
for  some  time,  and  might  have  succeeded  were  it 


The  Grand  Stroke.  201 

not  for  his  terrible,  insatiable  imagination,  always 
in  quest  of  something;  the  imagination  of  a  volup- 
tuary perpetually  in  advance  of  the  coming  pleas- 
ure, which  flung  him  at  last  into  the  blackest  of 
Britannic  poverty.  That  time  he  rolled  very  low, 
and  was  caught  at  night  in  Hyde  Park,  poaching 
among  the  swans  in  the  Serpentine.  A  few  months 
in  prison  completed  his  disgust  for  "  free  England," 
and  he  returned  to  the  condition  of  waif  and  stray 
on  the  Paris  pavements  whence  he  had  departed. 

It  was  only  another  fantastic  caprice,  joined  to 
his  instincts  of  clown  and  comedian,  that  made 
him  naturalize  himself  as  an  Englishman  in  Paris ; 
which  to  him  was  easy,  with  his  knowledge  of  the 
habits  and  customs,  the  language  and  comicality  of 
Anglo-Saxons.  The  idea  came  to  him  suddenly, 
as  if  by  instinct,  in  his  first  affair,  his  first  "  grand 
stroke,"  as  go-between. 

"Whom  shall  I  announce?"  asked  a  tall  fellow 
in  livery,  insolently. 

Poitou  felt  himself  so  shabby,  so  down  in  his 
luck,  in  that  vast  antechamber,  fearing  to  be  turned 
away  before  he  was  heard,  that  he  saw  the  need 
of  buoying  things  up  by  something  abnormal  and 
singular. 

"A  —  oh  !  .  .  announce  Sir  Tom  Levis." 
And  suddenly  he  felt  a  self-assurance  come  to 
him  under  that  name,  improvised  on  the  spur  of 
the  moment,  and  from  that  borrowed  nationality. 
Henceforth  he  amused  himself  by  perfecting  its 
peculiarities,  its  hobbies,  while  the  attentive  watch- 
fulness required  for  his  accent  and  behaviour  cor- 


202  Kings  in  Exile. 

rected  his  exuberant  fancy,  and  enabled  him  to 
invent  all  sorts  of  dodges  while  seeming  to  be  in 
search  of  the  French  words. 

Singular  thing !  Of  all  the  innumerable  con- 
trivances of  that  brain  full  of  fanciful  schemes,  this, 
the  least  sought  of  all,  served  him  the  best.  To  it, 
he  owed  his  intimacy  with  Sephora,  who  was  then 
keeping  on  the  Champs  Elysees  a  sort  of  family 
hotel,  a  jaunty  little  place  of  three  storeys,  pink 
curtains,  and  a  portico  on  the  Avenue  d'  Antin, 
between  wide  asphalts  made  gay  with  greenery 
and  flowers.  The  mistress  of  the  house,  always 
in  proper  dress,  showed  her  calm,  divine  profile  at 
a  window  on  the  ground-floor,  bending  over  her 
work  or  else  an  account-book.  Within,  a  society 
queerly  exotic  —  clowns,  book-makers,  grooms, 
horse-dealers,  the  Anglo-American  bohemia  (worst 
of  all),  the  scum  of  placers  and  of  gambling  resorts. 
The  female  contingent  was  recruited  from  the 
quadrilles  at  Mabille,  the  violins  of  which  could  be 
heard  of  a  summer's  evening,  mingling  with  the 
noise  of  the  "family"  disputes  and  the  rolling  of 
counters  and  louis ;  for  after  dinner  play  ran  high. 
If  at  times  a  respectable  foreign  family,  misled  by 
the  lie  on  the  sign,  came  to  install  themselves  in 
Sephora's  house,  the  singularity  of  the  guests,  the 
tone  of  the  conversations  drove  them  quickly 
away  on  the  first  day,  before  their  trunks  were 
unpacked. 

In  the  midst  of  these  adventurers  and  specu- 
lators, Maitre  Poitou,  or  rather  Tom  Levis,  a  little 
fellow  lodging  under  the  roof,  won  a  position  very 


The  Grand  Stroke.  203 

quickly  by  his  gayety,  his  suppleness,  his  practical 
knowledge  of  business,  and  of  all  business.  He 
invested  the  money  of  the  servants,  and  gained 
through  them  the  confidence  of  their  mistress. 
How  should  he  not  gain  it  with  that  smiling  open 
face  of  his,  and  those  unfailing  good  spirits  which 
made  him  a  precious  guest  at  the  table  d'hote, 
enticing  clients,  baiting  the  cloth,  the  instigator  of 
bets  and  of  extra  "  consumptions."  Cold  and  re- 
served to  others,  the  beautiful  mistress  of  the 
"  family  hotel "  was  free  with  none  but  Monsieur 
Tom.  Often  in  the  afternoon,  when  going  out  or 
coming  in,  he  would  stop  in  the  neat  little  office 
of  the  hotel,  all  glass  and  mats.  Sephora  would 
tell  him  her  affairs,  show  him  her  jewels  and  her 
books,  consult  him  about  the  bill  of  fare,  and  the 
proper  care  to  be  given  to  the  white  arum  with 
flowers  like  a  cornucopia  which  lived  beside  her 
in  a  Minton  pot.  They  laughed  together  at  the 
love-letters  and  the  protestations  of  all  sorts  that 
she  received,  for  hers  was  a  beauty  that  sentiment 
never  defaced.  Without  passion,  she  kept  her 
coolness  everywhere  and  at  all  times,  and  treated 
love  as  a  matter  of  business.  It  is  said  that  a 
woman's  first  lover  is  the  only  one  who  counts. 
Sephora's  first,  the  sexagenary  lover  chosen  by  old 
Leemans,  had  frozen  her  blood  forever  and  per- 
verted her  love.  She  now  saw  nothing  but  money 
in  it,  also  intrigue,  schemes,  and  traffic,  this  adora- 
ble creature  being  born  among  second-hand  things 
and  for  second-hand  purposes  only.  Little  by 
little  a  tie  was  formed  between  herself  and  Tom, 


204  Kings  in  Exile. 

the  friendship  of  an  uncle  and  ward.  He  advised 
her,  guided  her,  always  cleverly  and  with  a  fertility 
of  imagination  that  delighted  her  sedate  and  me- 
thodical nature,  in  which  Jewish  fatalism  was 
joined  to  a  heavy  Dutch  temperament.  Never 
had  she  invented  or  imagined  anything,  —  living 
wholly  in  the  present  moment;  and  Tom's  brain, 
that  firework  that  was  always  going  off,  simply 
dazzled  her.  The  crowning  point  of  all  was  when 
she  heard  her  lodger  one  evening,  after  he  had 
gabbled  in  his  most  comic  fashion  during  dinner, 
whisper  in  her  ear  as  he  took  his  key  from  the 
"family"  office:  — 

"  But,  you  know,  not  an  Englishman  at  all." 
From  that  day  she  fell  in  love,  or  rather  —  for 
sentiments  are  only  what  you  ticket  them  —  she 
became  infatuated  with  him,  just  as  a  woman  in 
society  is  infatuated  by  an  actor  whom  she  alone 
knows  away  from  the  foot-lights,  the  paint,  and 
the  costume,  such  as  he  is  and  not  such  as  he 
seems  to  others ;  love  is  always  desirous  of  privi- 
leges. Besides,  the  pair  both  came  from  the  same 
Parisian  gutter.  In  it  Sephora  had  soiled  her 
skirts,  and  Narcisse  had  rolled  there;  but  they 
kept  the  stain  and  a  liking  for  the  mire.  The 
stamp  of  the  streets,  the  crapulous  line  which 
serves  as  a  clue  to  the  leering  physiognomy  of  a 
blackguard,  and  which  raised  at  times  a  corner  of 
Tom's  mask,  showed  itself  in  Sephora  by  flashes 
along  the  biblical  lines  of  her  face,  and  in  the 
irony  and  canaille  laugh  of  her  Salome-like  mouth. 
This  singular  love  of  beauty  and  the  beast  only 


The  Grand  Stroke.  205 

grew  the  stronger  as  the  woman  entered  more  and 
more  into  the  life  of  the  mountebank,  into  a  knowl- 
edge of  his  tricks  and  his  contrivances,  from  the 
invention  of  the  hansom  to  that  of  the  multiplied 
waistcoats,  by  means  of  which  J.  Tom  Levis,  un- 
able to  make  himself  taller,  endeavoured  to  at  least 
appear  majestic ;  and  the  more  she  herself  was  asso- 
ciated with  this  unforeseeable,  twirling  existence  of 
projects,  visions,  great  and  little  "  strokes,"  the 
more  infatuated  she  became  with  him.  And  this 
caricature  of  a  man  was  really  so  strong  that  after 
ten  years  of  legitimate  bourgeois  marriage  he  still 
amused  her,  still  charmed  her  as  in  the  early  days 
of  their  acquaintance.  To  be  convinced  of  that,  it 
would  suffice  to  have  seen  her  on  this  particular 
day,  lying  back  on  the  divan  of  the  little  salon  in 
convulsions  of  laughter,  saying  with  an  enraptured 
and  delighted  air :  "  Is  n't  he  silly  !  .  .  Oh  !  is  n't 
he  silly  ! "  .  .  .  while  Tom  in  a  tight,  coloured  jersey, 
reduced  to  his  leanest,  baldest,  most  angular  and 
bony  expression,  was  performing  before  her  a  fren- 
zied jig,  with  jerking  gestures  and  frantic  stamps. 
When  both  were  weary,  she  of  laughing  and  he  of 
jigging,  he  threw  himself  beside  her  on  the  divan 
and  put  his  monkey  face  beside  that  angelic  head, 
puffing  his  joy  into  her  face. 

"  Done  for !  those  Sprichts  !  Ousted  !  Spricht 
and  Sprichters  !  I  Ve  found  my  stroke,  the  GRAND 
STROKE." 

"  What,  really?  .  .     Who  is  it?  " 

The  name  which  he  said  brought  a  pretty  gri- 
mace of  disdain  to  Sephora's  lips. 


206  Kings  in  Exile. 

"  That  great  gaby  !  .  .  Why,  he  has  n't  a  sou.  .  . 
We  have  shorn  him,  skinned  him,  him  and  his  Lion 
of  Illyria.  .  .  He  hasn't  one  atom  of  down  left 
upon  his  back." 

"  Don't  scoff  at  the  Lion  of  Illyria,  my  girl.  .  . 
His  skin  alone  is  worth  two  hundred  millions," 
said  Tom,  recovering  his  composure. 

The  woman's  eyes  flamed.  He  repeated  the 
words,  pausing  on  each  syllable  :  — 

"  Two  —  hundred  —  millions  !  .  ." 

Then  coolly,  clearly,  he  explained  the  "  stroke." 
Christian  II.  must  be  induced  to  accept  the  prop- 
ositions of  the  Diet,  and  cede  his  rights  to  the 
crown  for  the  fine  price  offered  to  him.  After  all, 
what  was  it?  —  a  signature  to  give,  that  was  all. 
Christian  himself  would  have  done  it  long  ago. 
It  was  those  around  him,  the  queen  especially, 
who  stopped  him  and  prevented  the  signing  of  the 
renunciation.  He  must  come  to  it  sooner  or  later. 
Not  a  sou  in  the  house.  Debts  all  over  Saint- 
Mande";  to  the  butcher,  to  the  grain-dealer — for 
in  spite  of  the  master's  penury  there  were  horses 
still  in  the  stable.  The  house  was  always  kept  up 
and  the  table  served  with  all  the  appearances  of 
luxury  while  disastrous  privations  lay  beneath. 
The  royal  linen,  bearing  the  crown,  was  in  holes  in 
the  closet,  with  none  to  replace  it.  The  stables 
were  empty,  the  largest  pieces  of  plate  in  pawn; 
the  servants,  scarcely  sufficient  in  number,  were 
often  for  months  unpaid.  All  these  details  Tom 
had  obtained  from  Lebeau,  the  valet,  who  had  also 
told  him  the  tale  of  the  two  hundred  millions 


The  Grand  Stroke.  207 

offered   by  the  Diet   of  Leybach   and   the   scene 
which  had  ensued  thereon. 

Ever  since  the  king  had  been  made  aware  that 
two  hundred  millions  were  close  beside  him,  against 
a  penful  of  ink,  he  was  no  longer  the  same  man ; 
never  laughed,  never  talked,  kept  to  this  fixed 
idea  as  a  neuralgic  pain  always  keeps  to  one  side 
of  the  forehead.  He  had  the  temper  of  a  bull-dog, 
sighed  heavily  and  silently.  And  yet  nothing 
was  changed  in  his  personal  attendance  —  secre- 
tary, valet,  coachman,  footmen,  they  were  all  there. 
The  same  costly  luxury  in  furniture  and  dress. 
That  haughty  Frederica,  crazy  with  pride,  believing 
she  masked  their  poverty  to  the  eye  of  all  by 
her  loftiness,  had  never  allowed  the  king  to  be  de- 
prived of  anything.  When  by  chance  he  dined  at 
Saint-Mande,  the  table  must  always  be  luxuriously 
served.  What  he  lacked,  however,  and  what  she 
could  not  supply,  was  money  in  his  pocket,  for 
the  club,  gambling,  and  women.  Evidently,  the 
king  would  succumb  in  the  end  on  that  line. 
Some  fine  morning,  after  a  long  night  at  baccarat,  not 
being  able  to  pay  and  not  daring  to  owe  —  fancy 
Christian  II.  posted  at  the  Grand-Club !  —  he 
would  take  his  pen  and  sign  his  resignation  of 
monarchy  in  a  flash.  The  thing  would  have  hap- 
pened already,  if  it  were  not  for  that  old  Rosen, 
who  secretly,  in  spite  of  the  queen's  order,  had 
begun  again  to  pay  for  Monseigneur.  So  the 
plan  was  made  to  entice  him  to  pass  the  level  of 
small  current  debts  and  drag  him  into  real  ex- 
penses, into  multiplied  obligations  beyond  the 


208  Kings  in  Exile. 

resources  of  the  old  duke.  All  this  required  a 
considerable  advance  of  money. 

"  But,"  said  Tom,  "  the  affair  is  such  a  fine  one 
that  funds  will  not  be  lacking.  The  best  way  will 
be  to  speak  to  your  father  and  do  the  business  in 
the  family.  The  only  thing  that  troubles  me  is  the 
mainspring  —  the  woman." 

"  What  woman  ?  "  asked  Sephora,  widening  her 
ingenuous  eyes. 

"  She  who  is  to  pass  the  rope  round  the  king's 
neck.  .  .  We  must  find  a  regular  squanderer  for 
that ;  a  serious  girl  with  a  strong  stomach,  who  '11 
attack  the  big  dishes  at  once." 

"  Amy  Ferat,  perhaps  ?  " 

"  Ho  !  whisht !  .  .  used-up,  done-with  .  .  .  besides, 
not  serious  enough,  sups,  sings,  makes  love  in 
real  youth  .  .  .  not  the  woman  to  worm  out  her 
little  million  a  month  peacefully,  without  seeming 
to  touch  it,  holding  her  sugarplum  high,  balking 
at  details,  haggling  over  every  square  inch,  and 
dearer  than  a  bit  of  ground  in  the  Rue  de  la  Paix." 

"  Oh  !  I  know  exactly  how  the  thing  should  be 
managed,"  said  S6phora,  thoughtfully.  .  .  "  But 
who?" 

"Ah!  that 'sit.  .  .     Who?" 

And  the  silent  laugh  each  sent  the  other  was 
as  good  as  a  bond  of  partnership. 

"  Go  on !  inasmuch  as  you  have  already  be- 
gun. .  ." 

"What!  you  know?  .  .  " 

"  Don't  I  see  his  game  when  he  looks  at  you, 
and  his  attendance  at  the  rail  as  soon  as  he  thinks  I 


The  Grand  Stroke.  209 

have  departed?  .  .  Besides,  he  makes  no  mystery 
of  his  love,  and  tells  it  to  anybody  who  listens  .  .  . 
why,  he  has  even  written  and  countersigned  it  on 
the  Club-Book." 

When  told  the  whole  story  of  the  bet,  the  tran- 
quil Sephora  was  roused  :  — 

"  Ha !  really.  .  .  Two  thousand  louis  that  he 
will  sleep.  .  .  Upon  my  word  !  that 's  too  much  !  " 

She  rose  and  walked  about  the  room  to  shake  off 
her  anger,  then,  returning  to  her  husband,  — 

"  You  know,  Tom,"  she  said,  "  that  for  more  than 
three  months  I  have  had  that  great  fool  hanging 
behind  my  chair.  .  .  Well,  see !  .  .  not  so  much  as 
that !  " 

And  the  snap  of  a  little  nail  was  heard  against  a 
tooth  which  only  sought  to  bite. 

She  told  no  lie.  Ever  since  the  king  had  been 
in  pursuit  he  had  got  no  farther  than  touching  the 
tips  of  her  ringers,  nibbling  her  pens  beside  her, 
and  getting  himself  intoxicated  with  the  rustle  of 
her  gown.  Never  had  such  a  thing  happened 
before  to  this  Prince  Charming,  spoilt  by  women, 
assailed  by  soliciting  smiles  and  perfumed  letters. 
His  handsome  curly  head,  where  the  print  of  a 
crown  still  lingered,  the  heroic  legend  of  a  kingly 
conduct,  carefully  kept  up  by  the  queen,  and 
beyond  all  else  that  perfume  of  seduction  which 
hangs  about  a  much-loved  being,  had  won  him  in 
society  certain  real  successes.  More  than  one 
young  woman  could  have  shown,  curled  up  on  the 
divan  of  an  aristocratic  boudoir,  a  little  ouistiti 
from  the  royal  cage ;  and  in  the  world  of  green- 

14 


2io  Kings  in  Exile. 

rooms,  usually  monarchical  and  "  right-thinking,"  it 
placed  a  young  woman  at  once  if  she  could  show  in 
her  album  of  souvenirs  the  portrait  of  Christian  II. 
That  man,  accustomed  to  feel  all  eyes  and  lips 
and  hearts  press  towards  him,  and  never  to  cast  his 
own  glance  without  a  quiver  from  the  spot  where 
it  fell,  had  now  for  months  been  dancing  a  vain 
attendance  on  the  coldest  and  most  peaceful  of 
natures.  .  She  played  the  part  of  model  cashier; 
she  counted,  ciphered,  turned  heavy  pages,  show- 
ing her  admirer  nothing  more  than  the  velvety 
roundness  of  her  profile,  with  the  glimmer  of  a 
smile  that  ended  at  the  eye  among  the  lashes.  At 
first,  the  caprice  of  the  Slav  was  amused  by  this 
struggle,  but  vanity  soon  had  a  part  in  it,  the  eyes 
of  the  Grand-Club  were  fixed  upon  him,  and  the 
matter  ended  in  a  real  passion,  fed  by  the  void  of 
that  unoccupied  existence,  in  which  the  flame  now 
mounted  straight  without  an  obstacle.  Every  after- 
noon he  came  at  five  o'clock,  the  gayest  moment 
of  the  Parisian  day,  the  hour  of  visits  when  the 
pleasures  of  the  evening  are  selected.  Little  by 
little,  all  the  young  men  of  the  Club  who  lunched 
at  the  Agency  and  circled  round  Sephora  ceded 
their  places  respectfully.  This  desertion,  dimin- 
ishing the  current  little  gains  of  the  Agency,  in- 
creased the  lady's  coldness;  and  as  the  Lion  of 
Illyria  no  longer  brought  in  anything,  she  was 
beginning  to  make  Christian  feel  that  he  bored 
her,  and  monopolized  too  royally  the  wicket  of  her 
railing,  when,  all  of  a  sudden,  a  change  occurred 
—  on  the  morrow  of  her  talk  with  Tom. 


The  Grand  Stroke.  211 

"  They  say  your  Majesty  was  seen,  last  night  at 
the  Fantaisies?  .  .  " 

At  this  inquiry,  accompanied  by  a  sad  and  anx- 
ious look,  Christian  II.  felt  delightfully  troubled. 

"  Yes,  certainly.  .  .     I  was  there.  .  .  " 

"Not  alone?  .  .  " 

"  But.  .  .  " 

"  Ah  !  .  .     Some  women  are  born  to  be  happy." 

Immediately,  as  if  to  lessen  the  instigation  of  her 
speech,  she  added  that  she  had  long  had  a  wild 
desire  to  go  to  that  little  theatre  "  to  see  the 
Swedish  danseuse,  you  know.  .  .  "  But  her  hus- 
band would  never  take  her  anywhere. 

Christian  at  once  proposed  to  take  her. 

"  You  ?     Oh  !  you  are  too  well  known." 

"  But  we  will  sit  quite  hidden  in  a  stage-box." 

In  short,  the  rendezvous  was  made  for  the  next 
evening;  because  it  so  happened  that  Tom  was 
to  spend  the  evening  out.  What  a  delightful 
escapade !  She,  at  the  front  of  the  box,  in  a 
discreet  and  knowing  toilet,  beamed  with  child- 
ish joy  at  the  dancing  of  that  foreigner  who  had 
her  hour  of  celebrity  in  Paris,  —  a  Swede  with  thin 
face  and  angular  gestures,  showing  beneath  her 
blonde  bandeaux  a  pair  of  brilliant  eyes,  the  black 
pupils  of  which  covered  the  whole  iris,  the  eyes  of 
a  rodent,  and  in  her  darts  and  silent  springs  with 
her  black  garments  the  blind  bewilderment  of  a 
monstrous  bat. 

"  Oh  !  how  it  amuses  me  !  how  amused  I  am !  " 
cried  S6phora. 

And  the  dissipated  king,  motionless  behind  her, 


212  Kings  in  Exile. 

a  box  of  sweetmeats  on  his  knee,  could  not  remem- 
ber a  more  voluptuous  pleasure  than  the  touch  of 
that  bare  arm  beneath  its  laces  and  that  fresh 
breath  as  it  turned  upon  him.  He  insisted  on 
taking  her  to  the  Saint-Lazare  station  when  she 
returned  that  night  to  Courbevoie ;  and  on  the  way, 
in  the  carriage,  a  transport  seized  him  and  he  drew 
her  with  both  arms  to  his  heart. 

"  Oh !  "  she  said,  in  a  grieved  voice,  "  you  will 
spoil  all  my  pleasure." 

The  immense  waiting-room  at  the  station  was 
deserted  and  ill-lighted.  They  seated  themselves 
side  by  side  on  a  bench,  Sephora  shivering,  and 
the  king  protecting  her  with  his  ample  furs.  Here 
she  was  no  longer  timid,  but  let  herselt  go  and 
talked  to  the  king  with  whispers  in  his  ear.  From 
time  to  time  some  official  passed  them,  swinging 
his  lantern,  or  a  group  of  actors  living  in  the 
suburbs  and  returning  home  from  the  theatre. 
Among  them,  came  a  couple  with  arms  interlaced, 
walking  somewhat  apart. 

"  How  happy  they  are,"  she  murmured.  .  .  "  No 
ties,  no  duties.  .  .  Following  the  impulse  of  the 
heart !  All  else  is  cheatery.  .  ." 

She  knew  something  of  that,  alas  !  and  suddenly, 
as  if  impelled,  she  related  her  sad  existence  with 
a  sincerity  that  touched  him ;  the  snares,  the  temp- 
tations of  the  streets  of  Paris  for  a  girl  made  poor 
by  her  father's  avarice ;  and  sold  at  sixteen,  her 
life  ended ;  the  four  years  passed  with  that  old 
man,  to  whom  she  had  been  only  a  nurse ;  then, 
not  willing  to  return  to  the  traffic  of  her  father, 


The  Grand  Stroke.  213 

needing  a  guide,  a  supporter,  she  had  married  this 
Tom  Levis,  a  man  of  money.  She  had  given  her- 
self, devoted  herself,  deprived  herself  of  all  pleas- 
ures to  be  buried  alive  in  the  country,  and  now 
put  to  toil  as  a  clerk;  and  this  without  thanks, 
without  so  much  as  a  kindness  from  that  ambi- 
tious man,  who  cared  for  nothing  but  his  business 
and  who,  at  the  slightest  sign  of  a  revolt,  at  the 
faintest  desire  to  see  life,  held  up  to  her  invari- 
ably that  wretched  past  for  which  she  was  not 
responsible.  .  . 

"  A  past,"  she  said,  rising,  "  which  brought  me 
that  vile  outrage  signed  by  your  name  on  the  book 
of  the  Grand-Club." 

The  bell  ringing  for  departure  cut  short  at  the 
right  moment  this  admirable  theatrical  effect. 
She  walked  away  with  her  gliding  step,  which  the 
folds  of  her  black  gown  followed ;  sending  Chris- 
tian a  salute  with  eye  and  hand  and  leaving  him 
motionless,  stupefied,  bewildered  by  what  he  had 
heard.  .  .  So  she  knew  it !  .  .  How  could  she 
know  it?  .  .  Oh  !  how  he  blamed  himself  for  his 
baseness,  his  bragging.  .  .  He  spent  the  whole 
night  in  writing  to  her,  imploring  pardon  in  varie- 
gated French,  bestrewn  with  the  flowers  of  his 
national  poesy,  which  compared  his  beloved  to 
a  cooing  dove,  and  the  glowing  fruit  of  the 
pomegranate. 

Marvellous  invention  of  S£phora,  that  reproach 
about  the  wager !  It  gave  her  a  barrier  against 
the  king,  and  for  some  time  to  come.  Also  it 
explained  her  long  coldness,  her  almost  inimical 


214  Kings  in  Exile. 

greetings,  and  the  clever  bargaining  she  intended 
to  make  of  her  person.  A  man  ought  to  bear  all 
from  a  woman  to  whom  he  had  offered  such  an 
insult !  Christian  became  the  timid,  docile  servant 
of  her  caprices,  the  acknowledged  sigisbeo  in  the 
sight  and  hearing  of  all  Paris. 

If  the  beauty  of  the  lady  was  able  to  excuse 
him  in  the  eyes  of  the  world,  certainly  the  friend- 
ship, the  familiarity  of  the  husband  had  nothing 
creditable.  "  My  friend,  Christian  II."  said  J.  Tom 
Levis,  drawing  up  his  stocky  figure.  Once  he 
took  a  fancy  to  receive  the  king  at  Courbevoie,  for 
the  sake  of  causing  Spricht  one  of  those  jealous 
furies  which  shortened  the  days  of  the  illustrious 
dress-maker.  The  king  went  over  the  house  and 
park,  boarded  the  yacht,  and  consented  to  let  him- 
self be  photographed  on  the  portico  of  the  man- 
sion with  its  master  and  mistress,  who  desired  to 
eternalize  the  memory  of  this  never-to-be-forgotten 
day.  And  that  evening,  while  fireworks  were  go- 
ing up  in  honor  of  his  Majesty,  their  rockets 
doubled  by  reflections  in  the  Seine,  Sephora, 
leaning  on  Christian's  arm,  said  beside  the  horn- 
beams, all  white  with  the  glare  of  the  Bengal 
lights :  — 

"  Oh !  how  I  would  love  you  if  you  were  not  a 
king.  .  ." 

It  was  the  first  avowal,  and  very  cleverly  made. 
All  the  mistresses  Christian  had  had  up  to  this 
time  adored  him  as  the  sovereign,  the  glorious 
possessor  of  that  title,  and  a  line  of  ancestors. 
This  one  loved  him  for  himself.  "  If  you  were 


The  Grand  Stroke.  215 

not  a  king,"  she  said.  He  was  so  little  of  a  king 
that  he  would  willingly  have  cast  away  at  her  wish 
the  rag  of  dynastic  crimson  which  now  scarcely 
held  upon  his  shoulders ! 

Soon  after,  she  explained  herself  more  clearly 
still.  He  was  uneasy  at  rinding  her,  one  after- 
noon, pale  and  weeping. 

"  I  am  afraid  we  shall  see  each  other  no  more 
before  long,"  she  said. 

"Why  so?  "he  asked. 

"  He  declared  to  me  just  now  that  business 
affairs  in  France  were  doing  so  badly  that  he 
should  have  to  close  up  and  go  elsewhere.  .  ." 

"  And  take  you  ?  " 

"  Oh  !  I  am  but  a  clog  on  .his  ambition.  .  He 
said  to  me:  '  Come,  if  you  like.  .  .'  I  must  follow 
him.  .  .  What  would  become  of  me,  left  here  all 
alone." 

"  Naughty  child,  am  I  not  here  ?  " 

She  looked  him  fixedly  in  the  eye. 

"  Yes,  it  is  true,  you  love  me  .  .  .  and  I  love 
you.  .  .  I  couLl  be  yours  without  shame.  .  .  But 
no,  it  is  impossible.  .  ." 

"  Why  impossible  ?  "  he  asked,  breathless  at  the 
thought  of  that  paradise. 

"  You  are  too  high  for  S£phora  Levis,  Mon- 
seigneur.  .  ." 

And  he,  with  adorable  fatuity :  — 

"  But  I  will  raise  you  to  myself.  .  .  I  will  make 
you  countess,  duchess.  That  is  a  right  that  still 
remains  to  me.  We  will  find  somewhere  in  Paris 
a  lover's  nest,  where  I  will  install  you  in  a  manner 


216  Kings  in  Exile. 

worthy  of  your  rank ;  where  we  can  live  alone,  — 
no  one  but  ourselves.  .  ." 

"  Oh  !  that  would  be  too  beautiful.  .  ." 

She  thought  a  little,  lifting  her  candid,  mois- 
tened, childlike  eyes.  Then  she  said  hastily: 

"  No,  no  ...  you  are  a  king.  .  .  Some  day,  in 
the  midst  of  our  happiness  you  will  leave  me.  .  ." 

"  Never." 

"  But  if  you  are  recalled?" 

"  Where?  .  .  To  Illyria?  .  .  That  is  all  over,  for- 
ever done  with.  .  .  I  missed  last  year  one  of  those 
occasions  that  never  return." 

"Truly?"  she  said,  with  a  joy  that  was  not 
feigned.  "  Oh  !  if  I  could  only  be  sure  of  it.  .  ." 

He  had  a  word  upon  his  lips  that  convinced  her, 
though  he  did  not  say  it ;  but  she  understood  it 
well.  That  evening,  Tom  Levis,  whom  Sephora 
kept  informed  of  everything,  declared  solemnly 
that  "  the  thing  was  sure ;  and  that  father  Leemans 
had  better  be  informed." 

Seduced,  like  his  daughter,  by  the  imagination, 
the  contagious  ardour  and  inventive  volubility  of 
his  son-in-law,  Leemans  had  several1  times  put 
money  into  the  Agency.  After  gaining,  he  had 
lost ;  following  in  that  respect  the  luck  of  cards ; 
but  when  he  found  himself  "  rolled,"  as  he  ex- 
pressed it,  two  or  three  times  the  old  fellow  took 
a  stand.  He  did  not  recriminate,  nor  get  angry, 
for  he  knew  business  too  well  and  detested  useless 
words;  but  when  his  son-in-law  came  to  talk 
about  his  being  a  sleeping-partner  in  one  of  those 
marvellous  castles  in  the  air  which  Tom's  eloquence 


The  Grand  Stroke.  217 

raised  to  the  skies,  the  old  man  smiled  a  significant 
"n,  o,  no  ...  that 's  over,"  in  his  beard,  and  lowered 
his  eyelids  in  a  way  that  brought  down  to  reason 
and  to  the  level  of  things  feasible  Tom 's  wild 
imaginations.  The  latter  knew  that;  and  as  he 
wisely  desired  that  this  Illyrian  affair  should  not 
go  out  of  the  family,  he  despatched  Sephora  to  the 
old  man,  who,  as  he  aged,  had  been  seized  by  a 
sort  of  affection  for  his  only  child,  in  whom,  more- 
over, he  felt  that  he  lived  again. 

Since  the  death  of  his  wife,  Leemans  had  given 
up  his  antiquity  shop  in  the  Rue  de  la  Paix,  con- 
tenting himself  with  the  old  place  in  the  Rue 
Eginhard.  It  was  there  that  Sephora  went  one 
morning,  very  early,  to  be  sure  of  finding  him ; 
for  he  was  seldom  at  home,  the  old  fellow.  Im- 
mensely rich  and  retired  from  trade,  at  least  in 
appearance,  he  continued  to  ferret  about  Paris 
from  morning  till  night,  attending  sales,  seeking 
the  odour,  the  friction  of  business,  and  above  all 
watching  with  marvellous  perspicacity  the  crowd 
of  little  dealers,  traders,  sellers  of  bric-a-brac,  to 
whom  he  was  sleeping  partner,  but  without  owning 
that  fact,  for  fear  his  wealth  should  be  suspected. 

Sephora,  from  a  fancy,  a  memory  of  her  youth, 
went  on  foot  from  the  Rue  Royale  to  the  Rue 
Eginhard ;  following  almost  the  same  way  she 
used  to  take  in  former  days  when  returning  from 
the  shop.  It  was  not  yet  eight  o'clock.  The  air 
was  keen,  carriages  were  few,  and  towards  the 
Bastille  there  remained  of  the  dawn  an  orange 
glow,  in  which  the  gilded  genius  on  the  column 


218  Kings  in  Exile. 

seemed  to  bathe  his  wings.  From  this  direction, 
through  all  the  adjacent  streets  came  a  charming 
population  of  the  girls  of  the  faubourg  on  their 
way  to  work.  If  Prince  d'Axel  had  risen  early 
enough  to  watch  for  that  flood,  his  eyes  would 
have  been  well  content  that  morning.  By  twos, 
by  threes,  chattering,  alert,  and  walking  very  fast, 
they  reached  the  swarming  work-rooms  of  the 
Rues  Saint-Martin,  Saint-Denis,  Vieille-du-Temple ; 
and  some  —  these  were  the  few  stylish  ones  — 
the  shops  on  the  boulevards,  farther  away,  but 
later  to  open. 

The  animation  of  the  scene  was  not  that  of 
evening,  when,  tasks  finished  and  their  heads  full 
of  the  day's  events,  they  returned  to  their  lodg- 
ings with  racket  and  laughter,  and  sometimes  with 
envy  of  the  luxury  encountered  which  made  the 
garret  seem  higher  up  and  the  stairway  more 
gloomy  than  before.  But  now,  if  sleep  still  clung 
to  these  young  heads,  rest  had  adorned  them  with 
a  sort  of  freshness,  completed  by  the  careful  dress- 
ing of  their  hair,  the  knot  of  ribbon  fastened  to 
the  braid  or  beneath  the  chin,  and  the  brushing 
given  before  daylight  to  the  black  gowns.  Here 
and  there  a  trumpery  jewel  at  the  tip  of  an  ear 
rosy  with  cold,  a  shining  comb,  the  glitter  of  a 
buckle  at  the  waist,  the  white  edge  of  a  newspaper 
folded  into  the  pocket  of  a  waterproof.  And  what 
haste  !  what  courage  !  —  light  mantles,  thin  skirts, 
unsteady  steps  on  heels  too  high  and  worn-down 
sideways  by  much  tramping.  Among  them  all, 
the  desire,  the  vocation  for  coquetry,  a  way  of 


The  Grand  Stroke.  219 

walking  with  their  foreheads  up,  their  eyes  for- 
ward, with  an  eager  curiosity  for  what  the  day 
may  bring,  —  natures  all  ready  for  whatever  turns 
up,  just  as  their  Parisian  type,  which  is  not  one,  is 
ready  for  all  transformations. 

Se"phora  was  by  no  means  sentimental,  she  saw 
nothing  beyond  the  present  hour  and  its  events ; 
nevertheless  this  confused  pattering,  this  hurried 
bustle  amused  her.  Her  youth  came  back  to  her 
on  all  these  pretty  faces,  in  that  early  morning 
sky,  in  that  curious  old  quarter,  where  each  street 
bears  at  its  corner  on  a  poster  the  names  of  its 
noted  merchants,  names  that  had  not  changed  in 
fifteen  years.  In  passing  through  the  black  arch- 
way which  serves  as  an  entrance  to  the  Rue  Egin- 
hard  from  the  Rue  Saint-Paul,  she  encountered 
the  long  robe  of  a  rabbi  on  his  way  to  the  neigh- 
bouring synagogue;  two  steps  farther  on  was  a 
rat-catcher  with  his  pole  and  his  plank,  to  which 
hung  the  hairy  corpses,  a  type  of  old  Paris  no 
longer  to  be  seen  except  in  this  tangle  of  mouldy 
buildings,  where  all  the  rats  in  the  city  have  their 
headquarters ;  farther  on  was  the  driver  of  a 
rented  carriage,  whom  she  had  seen  every  morn- 
ing of  her  work-girl  life  walking  just  there,  with 
his  big  boots  quite  unfit  for  going  afoot,  and 
holding  preciously  in  his  hand,  as  straight  as  the 
taper  of  a  communicant,  that  whip  which  is  the 
sword  of  a  Jehu,  the  insignia  of  his  order,  and 
never  leaves  him.  At  the  door  of  two  or  three 
shops,  comprising  the  whole  street,  and  where  the 
shutters  were  just  being  taken  down,  she  saw  the 


220  Kings  in  Exile. 

same  old  garments  hanging  in  a  mass,  and  heard 
the  same  Hebraic  and  Teutonic  gabble,  so  that 
when,  having  crossed  the  low  porch  of  the  paternal 
domicile,  the  little  courtyard,  and  the  four  steps 
leading  up  to  the  shop,  she  pulled  the  string 
of  the  cracked  bell,  it  seemed  to  her  that  she  had 
fifteen  years  less  upon  her  shoulders  —  fifteen 
years,  however  which  did  not  weigh  upon  her. 

As  at  that  earlier  period,  the  Darnet  opened  the 
door  to  her,  —  a  robust  Auvergnat  creature,  whose 
shiny,  high-coloured  face  with  dark  undertones, 
tightly  knotted  shawl,  and  black  cap  edged  with 
white,  seemed  to  wear  the  mourning  of  a  coal- 
dealer's  shed.  Her  role  in  the  house  was  made 
visible  by  the  manner  in  which  she  opened  the 
door  to  Se"phora,  and  by  the  stiff  smile  that  the 
two  women  exchanged  as  they  looked  at  each 
other. 

"My  father  is  in?" 

"  Yes,  madame.  .  .  In  the  workshop.  .  .  I  will 
call  him." 

"  Useless.  . .     I  know  the  way." 

She  crossed  the  antechamber,  the  salon,  and 
the  garden,  a  black  pit  between  great  walls 
above  which  trees  were  growing,  its  narrow  paths 
encumbered  with  innumerable  old  articles,  — 
iron-work,  lead-work,  wrought-iron  railings,  stout 
chains,  their  oxidized,  blackened  metal  harmon- 
izing well  with  the  melancholy  box  and  the 
greenish  tones  of  an  old  fountain.  On  one  side 
was  a  shed  overflowing  with  rubbish,  carcasses 
of  furniture  broken  for  years,  piles  of  carpeting 


The  Grand  Stroke.  221 

rolled  into  corners;  on  the  other  a  workshop 
almost  wholly  of  ground-glass,  to  escape  the  curi- 
osity of  the  neighbouring  windows.  There,  piled 
to  the  ceiling  in  apparent  disorder,  was  an  assem- 
blage of  treasures,  their  true  value  known  only  to 
the  old  man  himself,  —  lanterns,  lustres,  torches, 
panoplies,  incense-burners,  bronzes,  antique  or 
foreign.  At  the  lower  end  were  two  blacksmiths' 
forges,  with  carpenters'  and  locksmiths'  benches. 
Here  it  was  that  the  old  antiquarian  dealer 
vamped  up,  copied,  rejuvenated  his  old  models 
with  amazing  cleverness  and  the  patience  of  a  Ben- 
edictine. Formerly  the  racket  was  great  from 
morning  till  night  when  five  or  six  workmen  sur- 
rounded the  master;  but  now  nothing  more  was 
heard  than  the  click  of  a  hammer  on  fine  metal  and 
the  nibbling  of  files,  while  at  night  the  gleam  of  a 
single  lamp  showed  that  the  trade  within  was  not 
yet  dead. 

As  his  daughter  entered,  old  Leemans,  in  a  big 
leather  apron,  his  shirt-sleeves  pushed  up  on  his 
hairy,  light-skinned  arms  as  if  he  had  been  carrying 
copper  to  the  benches,  was  in  the  act  of  hammer- 
ing out  the  stem  of  a  Louis  XIII.  chandelier,  the 
model  of  which  stood  before  him.  At  the  sound 
of  the  opening  door,  he  raised  his  rubicund  face 
lost  in  a  mass  of  hair  and  beard  of  a  reddish  white, 
and  knitted  his  thick,  shaggy  eyebrows,  from 
which  his  glance  issued  as  if  from  the  long  hairy 
fur  of  a  griphon. 

"  Morning,  pa.  .  ."  said  Sephora,  pretending  not 
to  see  the  annoyed  gesture  of  the  old  man  as  he 


222  Kings  in  Exile. 

tried  to  conceal  the  hammer  he  was  wielding ;  for 
he  did  not  like  to  be  disturbed  or  seen  at  his 
work. 

"  It  is  you,  is  it,  little  girl?" 

He  rubbed  his  old  muzzle  to  her  delicate 
cheek. 

"What  has  happened  to  you?.."  he  asked, 
pushing  her  into  the  garden.  "  Why  did  you  get 
up  so  early?" 

"  I  have  something  very  important  to  tell  you." 

"  Come  !  " 

And  he  pulled  her  towards  the  house. 

"  Oh !  but  you  know,  I  don't  want  to  have  the 
Darnet  there  .  .  ." 

"  Well,  well  .  .  ."  said  the  old  man,  laughing  in 
his  bristles ;  and  going  in,  he  called  to  the  woman 
who  was  polishing  a  Venetian  mirror : 

"  Darnet,  you  will  go  in  the  garden  and  see  if 
I  am  there." 

And  the  tone  in  which  this  was  said  proved  that 
the  old  pacha  had  not  yet  abdicated  into  the  hands 
of  his  favourite  slave.  They  remained,  father  and 
daughter,  alone  in  the  neat  bourgeois  little  salon, 
the  furniture  of  which,  covered  with  white  cloths, 
and  the  little  bits  of  woollen  carpet  before  each 
chair,  contrasted  with  the  chaos  of  dusty  treasures 
in  the  shed  and  shop.  Like  those  fine  cooks  who 
will  eat  none  but  the  simplest  dishes,  Pere  Lee- 
mans,  so  expert  and  knowing  in  things  of  art,  did 
not  possess  in  his  own  house  a  single  specimen  of 
them.  In  that  he  showed  the  sort  of  merchant 
that  he  was ;  appraising,  trading,  exchanging,  with- 


The  Grand  Stroke.  223 

out  feeling  or  regret ;  unlike  those  artists  in  bric- 
a-brac  who  before  they  part  with  a  rare  article 
inquire  anxiously  how  the  amateur  intends  to  sur- 
round it  and  show  its  merits.  There  was  nothing 
on  Pere  Leemans'  walls  but  his  own  full  length 
portrait  by  Wattelet,  representing  him  at  the  forge 
in  the  midst  of  his  iron-work.  It  was  he  him- 
self, not  so  white-haired,  but  quite  unchanged ; 
lean,  bent,  always  the  same  dog-man  head,  with  its 
straight,  reddish-white  beard  and  long  hair  forming 
a  kind  of  helmet,  and  showing  little  more  of  the 
face  than  a  nose  reddened  by  chronic  inflamma- 
tion, which  gave  to  this  sober  tea-drinker  the  look 
of  a  drunkard.  This  picture  was  the  sole  char- 
acteristic thing  in  the  room,  together  with  a  church 
prayer-book,  lying  open  and  leaves  down,  on  the 
mantel-shelf.  Leemans  owed  several  good  sales  to 
that  book.  It  distinguished  him  from  his  rivals ; 
from  that  old  miscreant  Schwalbach,  from  Mother 
Esau  and  others  with  their  Ghetto  origin,  whereas 
he  was,  he,  a  Christian,  married  for  love  to  a  Jewess 
who  became  a  Christian  and  even  a  Catholic.  This 
served  him  well  with  his  upper-class  customers ; 
he  went  to  mass  in  the  oratory  of  those  ladies,  in 
that  of  the  Comtesse  Malet,  for  instance,  and  the 
elder  of  the  two  Sismondos.  On  Sundays  he 
appeared  at  Saint-Thomas  d'Aquin  and  at  Sainte- 
Clotilde,  where  his  best  clients  went;  while  through 
his  wife  he  kept  on  the  right  side  of  the  great  Jew- 
ish houses.  As  he  grew  older  this  religious  sham 
became  a  fixed  habit,  and  often  in  the  morning,  on 
starting  out  for  his  day's  business,  he  would  enter 


224  Kings  in  Exile. 

St.  Paul's  "  to  get,"  as  he  said  quite  seriously,  "  a 
little  scrap  of  mass,"  having  remarked  that  he 
always  succeeded  better  in  business  on  those 
days. 

"  Well?  .  ."  he  said,  looking  slyly  at  his 
daughter. 

"  A  great  affair,  pa.  .  ." 

She  took  from  her  bag  a  bundle  of  drafts  and 
notes  bearing  Christian's  signature. 

"  These  have  got  to  be  cashed.  .  .  Will  you 
do  it?" 

At  the  mere  sight  of  that  signature  the  old  fel- 
low made  a  grimace  which  puckered  his  whole 
face  and  made  it  disappear  into  his  beard  with  the 
motion  of  a  hedgehog  at  bay. 

"  Illyrian  paper !  .  .  Thank  you,  I  know  it.  .  . 
Your  husband  must  be  a  fool  to  send  you  here  on 
such  an  errand.  .  .  Come  now,  really,  have  you  got 
to  that?" 

Without  being  discomfited  by  this  reception, 
which,  indeed,  she  expected, — 

"  Listen  .  .  ."  she  said,  and  in  her  composed  way 
she  related  the  affair,  the  Grand  Stroke,  in  de- 
tail, giving  proofs  to  support  it,  —  a  copy  of  the 
"  Quernaro  "  in  which  the  session  of  the  Diet  was 
reported,  and  letters  from  Lebeau  keeping  them 
informed  of  the  situation  .  .  .  the  king,  madly  in 
love,  bent  on  establishing  his  happiness.  .  .  A 
superb  mansion,  Avenue  de  Messine,  servants, 
equipages,  he  wanted  them  all  for  the  lady,  and 
was  ready  to  sign  as  many  bills  as  they  chose,  at 
any  interest.  .  .  Leemans  now  began  to  prick  up 


The  Grand  Stroke.  225 

his  two  ears,  made  objections,  ferreting  into  all  the 
corners  of  the  affair  so  knowingly  contrived. 

"  How  long,  the  notes?  " 

"  Three  months." 

"  Then  in  three  months?  .  ." 

She  made  the  gesture  of  tightening  a  slip  noose, 
and  her  mouth,  drawing  in,  thinned  her  calm  lips. 

"And  the  interest?" 

"  Whatever  you  like.  .  .  The  heavier  the  notes, 
the  better  for  us.  .  .  He  must  have  no  other 
resource  than  to  sign  the  renunciation." 

"And  once  signed?  .  ." 

"  That  concerns  the  woman.  .  .  She  has  before 
her  a  man  with  two  hundred  millions  to  nibble  at." 

"  And  suppose  she  keeps  it  all  for  herself?  .  . 
We  ought  to  be  devilishly  sure  of  that  woman.  .  ." 

"  We  are  sure.  .  ." 

"Who  is  it?" 

"  You  don't  know  her,"  said  Sephora,  without 
blinking,  putting  the  papers  back  in  her  little 
bag. 

"  Let  those  be,"  said  the  old  man,  hastily.  .  . 
"  It  takes  a  lot  of  money,  you  know.  .  .  A  large 
investment.  .  .  I  '11  talk  it  over  with  Pichery." 

"  Take  care,  papa.  .  .  We  must  n't  let  too 
many  on  to  it.  .  .  There 's  already  ourselves, 
Lebeau,  and  now  you.  .  .  If  you  go  and  let  in 
others  ..." 

"Only  Pichery.  .  .  You  must  see  that  I  alone 
could  n't  do  it.  .  .  It  is  a  great  deal  of  money  .  .  . 
great  deal  of  money." 

She  answered  coldly :  — 
15 


226  Kings  in  Exile. 

"  Oh !  we  shall  want  more  than  this." 

Silence.  The  old  man  reflected,  sheltering  his 
thought  behind  his  bristles. 

"  Well,  come  .  .  ."  he  said  at  last.  "  I  '11  do  the 
thing ;  but  on  one  condition.  That  house  on  the 
Avenue  de  Messine.  .  .  It  must  be  furnished  of 
course  stylishly.  .  .  Well,  I  am  to  furnish  the 
bric-a-brac.  .  ." 

Into  even  his  usurious  traffic  the  second-hand 
dealer  must  put  his  paw.  Sephora's  thirty-two 
teeth  burst  into  a  laugh. 

"  Oh  !  the  old  greedy !  the  old  greedy !  "  she 
cried,  using  a  word  that  came  to  her  suddenly  in 
that  second-hand  den,  contrasting  absurdly  with 
her  air  of  distinction  and  her  elegant  attire. 
"Come,  that 's  agreed  to,  pa.  .  .  You  shall  furnish 
the  bric-a-brac  .  .  .  only,  nothing  from  mamma's 
collection,  mind." 

Under  that  humbugging  title,  "Mme.  Leemans' 
Collection,"  the  old  dealer  had  grouped  a  mass  of 
damaged,  unsalable  articles,  which,  thanks  to  this 
sentimental  title,  he  got  rid  of  magnificently ;  de- 
taching from  the  precious  lot,  from  the  relics  of 
his  dear  deceased,  only  such  things  as  were  paid 
for  by  their  weight  in  gold. 

"  You  understand  me,  old  man  ...  no  shams, 
no  rubbish.  .  .  The  lady  knows  what's  what." 

"You  think  so.  .  .  Does  she  know?  .  ."  said 
the  old  dog  in  his  beard. 

"  As  well  as  you  or  I,  I  tell  you." 

"  But  just  tell  me.  .  ." 

He  put  his  muzzle  to  her  dainty  face;  and  on 


The  Grand  Stroke.  227 

both  of  them  the  spirit  of  low  traffic  was  written, 
on  the  old  parchment  and  the  downy  rose-leaf. 

"  Just  tell  me  who  she  is,  that  woman.  .  .  You 
ought  to  tell  me,  now  I  am  in  it." 

"  She  is  .  .  ." 

Se"phora  stopped  a  moment  to  tie  the  broad 
strings  of  her  bonnet  beneath  the  soft  oval  of  her 
face,  casting  into  a  mirror,  as  she  did  so,  the  satis- 
fied look  of  a  pretty  woman,  in  which  a  certain 
new  pride  appeared  to  mingle. 

"  She  is  the  Comtesse  de  Spalato,"  she  said 
gravely. 


228  Kings  in  Exile. 


IX. 

AT  THE  ACADEMY. 

THE  classic  palace  which  sleeps  under  the  lead 
of  its  cupola,  at  the  end  of  the  Pont  des  Arts  and 
the  beginning  of  studious  Paris,  had,  on  this  par- 
ticular morning,  an  unusual  air  of  life,  and  seemed 
to  be  advancing  to  the  line  of  the  quay.  In  spite 
of  the  rain,  a  pattering  June  rain,  that  came  in 
showers,  a  crowd  was  collecting  at  the  steps  of  the 
great  entrance,  and  extending,  like  the  queue  at  a 
theatre,  along  the  railings,  the  walls,  and  even  to 
the  arches  of  the  Rue  du  Seine ;  a  gloved  crowd, 
well-dressed,  well-behaved,  waiting  patiently,  know- 
ing that  it  was  certain  of  admittance  in  virtue  of 
little  cards  of  different  colours,  brightened  by  the 
shower,  with  which  all  were  supplied.  Carriages 
were  standing  single  file  along  the  deserted  Quai 
de  la  Monnaie,  the  most  luxurious  carriages  that 
Paris  contained,  with  coquettish  or  splendid  liv- 
eries, democratically  sheltered  by  umbrellas  and 
water-proofs,  showing,  nevertheless,  clubbed  wigs 
and  gold  lace,  and  on  their  panels  the  armorial 
bearings  and  greatest  blazons  of  France  and  Eu- 
rope, even  royal  arms,  like  enlarged  plates  of  a 
Pierre  d'Hozier,  moving  in  line  along  the  Seine. 
When  a  ray  escaped,  a  ray  of  that  Parisian  sunlight 


At  the  Academy.  229 

which  has  the  grace  of  a  smile  on  a  grave  face, 
everything  sparkled  with  wet  reflections,  the  har- 
nesses, the  helmets  of  the  guards,  the  arch  of  the 
dome,  the  cast-iron  lions  at  the  entrance,  usually 
dusty  and  shabby,  but  now  of  a  rain-washed,  beau- 
tiful black. 

At  long  intervals,  on  days  of  solemn  reception, 
the  old  Institute  has  these  sudden  and  interesting 
wakings-up  of  an  afternoon.  But  this  morning 
the  affair  was  not  a  reception.  The  season  was 
far  too  much  advanced ;  the  new  members,  co- 
quettish as  comedians,  would  never  have  consented 
to  make  their  first  appearance  after  the  "  Prix  de 
Paris  "  had  been  competed  for,  the  Salon  closed, 
and  trunks  packed  ready  for  departure.  It  was 
simply  a  distribution  of  Academic  prizes,  —  a  cere- 
mony without  much  interest,  which  usually  attracts 
none  but  the  families  of  the  prize-winners.  The 
circumstance  which  now  brought  this  exceptional 
influx,  this  aristocratic  crowd,  to  the  doors  of  the 
Institute  was  the  fact  that  among  the  crowned 
works  was  the  "  Memorial  of  the  Siege  of  Ragusa  " 
by  Prince  Herbert  de  Rosen ;  and  the  monarchical 
coterie  had  profited  by  that  event  to  organize, 
under  the  protection  of  the  police,  a  demonstration 
against  the  government. 

By  an  extraordinary  chance,  or  by  the  act  of  one 
of  those  intrigues  which  mysteriously  work  like 
moles  in  official  or  academic  soil,  the  Secretary 
being  ill,  the  report  upon  the  crowned  works  was 
to  be  read  by  the  noble  Due  de  Fitz-Roy,  and  it 
was  known  that  he,  legitimist  of  the  whitest  and 


230  Kings  in  Exile. 

most  anaemic  blood,  would  bring  out  with  empha- 
sis the  ardent  passages  in  Herbert's  book,  that 
noble  historical  manifesto  around  which  the  devo- 
tion and  the  fervour  of  the  party  had  gathered. 
In  short,  it  was  one  of  those  malicious  protestations 
which  the  Academy  occasionally  ventured  upon 
even  under  the  second  Empire,  and  which  the 
good-natured  indulgence  of  the  Republic  per- 
mitted. 

Mid-day.  The  twelve  strokes  ringing  from  the 
old  clock  cause  a  stir  and  a  murmur  among  the 
crowd.  The  doors  are  opened.  Those  on  foot 
advance  slowly,  methodically,  toward  the  en- 
trances on  the  square  and  on  the  Rue  Mazarine; 
while  the  emblazoned  carriages,  turning  into  the 
courtyard,  deposit  their  masters,  the  bearers  of 
privileged  tickets,  beneath  the  portico,  where, 
among  the  ushers  with  their  gold  chains,  bustled 
the  affable  head  of  the  secretariat,  in  silver  lace, 
smiling  and  polite  as  the  majordomo  of  the  Palace 
of  the  Sleeping  Beauty  when,  after  a  nap  of  a 
hundred  years,  the  princess  awakes  on  her  state 
bed.  Doors  fly  open,  the  sleepy  footmen,  in  long 
surtouts,  spring  from  their  seats;  bows,  long- 
trained  curtseys,  smiles,  whispers  among  the  ha- 
bituhy  are  exchanged  as  the  arrivals  pass  with  a 
sound  of  rustling  silks  along  the  carpeted  passage 
leading  to  the  reserved  boxes,  or  through  the  nar- 
row corridor  sloping  downward  as  if  sunken  by 
the  steps  of  centuries,  which  leads  to  the  interior 
of  the  palace. 

The  hall,  an  amphitheatre,  soon  filled  up  on  the 


At  the  Academy.  231 

sides  reserved  for  the  general  public.  The  benches 
were  occupied  one  after  another,  and  behind  the 
last  row  were  persons  standing,  their  silhouettes 
denned  against  the  glass  of  the  windows.  Not  a 
place  empty.  A  swelling  sea  of  heads  as  in  the 
half-light  of  a  church,  or  a  cold  museum,  made 
colder  by  the  polished  yellow  stucco  of  the  walls 
and  the  marble  of  the  great  meditative  statues,  — 
Descartes,  Bossuet,  Massillon,  all  the  glory  of  the 
great  century  congealed  in  one  motionless  attitude. 

Facing  the  crowded  semicircle  were  a  few  un- 
occupied benches,  and  a  small  green  table  with 
the  traditional  glass  of  water,  awaiting  the  Acad- 
emy and  its  committee,  who  would  enter  presently 
through  those  tall  doors  surmounted  by  a  gilded 
and  tomblike  inscription :  LETTERS,  SCIENCES, 
ARTS.  All  is  ancient,  cold,  meagre ;  contrasting 
with  the  springlike  toilets  with  which  the  hall  is 
actually  blooming,  —  light,  delicate  materials,  fluffy 
grays,  auroral  pinks,  made  in  the  new  and  rather 
tight  fashion  of  the  day,  and  sparkling  with  jet 
and  steel;  airy  hats  and  bonnets,  a  medley  of 
mimosa  and  lace  with  flashes  of  tropic  birds  amid 
knots  of  velvet  and  sun-coloured  straw;  and 
around  and  above  it  all  the  regular,  continuous 
beat  of  those  large  fans,  the  scent  of  which  made 
the  big  eye  of  the  great  Meaux  eagle  wink.  For 
you  know  very  well  it  is  no  reason,  because  you 
belong  to  old  France,  that  you  should  smell  mil- 
dewed and  dress  like  a  fright. 

All  that  Paris  could  show  of  chic,  well-born, 
and  "right-thinking"  had  rendezvoused  here; 


232  Kings  in  Exile. 

smiling  and  recognizing  one  another  with  little 
masonic  signs,  —  the  flower  of  the  clubs,  the  cream 
of  the  Faubourg,  a  society  that  never  exhibits 
itself,  takes  no  part  in  anything,  is  never  seen  at 
first  representations,  and  only  on  certain  days  at 
the  Opera  or  the  Conservatoire,  —  a  discreet  and 
muffled  society;  closing  its  salons  with  many 
curtains  from  the  noise  and  light  of  the  street; 
giving  no  occasion  to  be  talked  about,  except  now 
and  then  by  a  death,  a  suit  for  separation,  or  an 
eccentric  adventure  of  one  of  its  members,  a  hero 
of  the  "  Persil "  or  the  Gomme.  Among  this 
choice  society  were  a  few  Illyrian  nobles,  who  had 
followed  their  princes  into  exile,  splendid  types 
of  men  and  women,  a  little  too  accentuated,  too 
exotic  for  this  delicately  refined  company.  And 
also,  grouped  at  certain  very  apparent  points,  were 
the  academic  circles  which  prepare,  beforehand, 
the  elections  and  direct  the  votes,  the  social  cultiva- 
tion of  whom  is  worth  more  to  a  candidate  than 
his  weight  in  genius.  Illustrious  losers  in  the 
Empire  lottery  were  also  here,  worming  themselves 
in  among  the  "  old  party,"  whose  sarcasms  on  their 
parvenu  condition  they  have  long  since  exhausted ; 
and  even,  select  as  the  assembly  may  be,  a  few 
questionables,  celebrated  for  monarchical  ties,  have 
managed  to  slip  in,  in  simple  toilets,  with  two  or 
three  actresses  then  in  vogue,  faces  known  to  all 
Paris,  visions  the  more  commonplace  and  wearily 
besetting  because  other  women  in  all  societies  per- 
sist in  copying  them.  Besides  these,  journalists, 
reporters  of  foreign  newspapers,  armed  with  blot- 


At  the  Academy.  233 

ters,  perfected  pencil-cases,  tools  of  their  trade,  as 
if  for  a  journey  to  Central  Africa. 

Lower  down,  in  a  little  circle  reserved  at  the  foot 
of  the  benches,  was  seen  the  Princesse  Colette  de 
Rosen,  wife  of  the  laureate,  delicious  in  a  costume 
of  greenish  blue,  Indian  cashmere,  and  moire 
antique,  wearing  a  triumphant,  beaming  look  be- 
neath the  silky  fluff  of  her  flaxen  hair.  Near  her 
was  a  stout  man  with  a  common  face,  old  Sauva- 
don,  very  proud  of  accompanying  his  niece;  but 
having,  in  his  ignorant  zeal  and  his  desire  to  do 
honour  to  the  ceremony,  put  himself  into  an  even- 
ing suit,  he  became  extremely  unhappy.  Stiff  in 
his  white  cravat  as  if  in  the  stocks,  he  watched  the 
men  who  entered,  hoping  to  find  a  mate  to  his 
dress-coat.  Of  course,  not  one. 

From  this  flutter  of  colour  and  animated  figures 
came  a  murmur  of  voices,  rhythmed,  but  distinct 
and  loud,  which  seemed  to  establish  a  magnetic 
current  from  one  end  of  the  hall  to  the  other. 
The  slightest  laugh  spread  itself,  was  communi- 
cated ;  the  slightest  sign,  the  mute  gesture  of  two 
parted  hands  preparing  to  applaud  was  perceivable 
from  top  to-  bottom  of  the  benches.  It  was  emotion 
and  good-will,  all  prepared  and  ready  for  a  first 
representation  of  which  the  success  was  certain ; 
and  when,  from  time  to  time,  the  celebrities  en- 
tered and  took  their  seats,  the  quivering  excite- 
ment of  the  crowded  assembly  turned  towards 
them,  merely  restraining  as  they  passed  its  curious 
or  admiring  murmurs. 

Do  you  see,  high  up,  above  the  Sully,  the  two 


234  Kings  in  Exile. 

women  who  have  just  entered,  accompanied  by  a 
little  boy,  who  fill  the  whole  front  of  their  box  ? 
They  are  the  Queens  of  Illyria  and  Palermo ;  two 
cousins,  their  figures  erect  and  proud,  dressed  in 
the  same  mauve  faille,  with  the  same  rare  em- 
broideries, and  on  the  golden  hair  of  one  and  the 
dark  braids  of  the  other  the  same  caress  of  sweep- 
ing feathers  around  their  hats,  women  of  noble 
types  completely  different.  Frederica  is  paler,  the 
gentleness  of  her  smile  is  saddened  by  an  ageing 
look;  and  the  face  of  her  darker  cousin  is  also 
stamped  with  the  distresses,  the  anxieties  of  exile. 
Between  them  the  little  Comte  de  Zara  shakes  the 
blond  curls  of  his  hair,  pushed  back  upon  a  pretty 
head  that  is  growing  daily  more  erect,  more  vigor- 
ous, while  the  glance  of  the  eyes  and  the  mouth 
are  gaining  assurance.  True  seedling  of  kingship 
beginning  to  bloom. 

The  old  Due  de  Rosen  stands  at  the  back  of  the 
box  with  another  personage,  not  Christian  II.,  — 
who  avoids  an  ovation,  —  but  a  tall  fellow  with  a 
bushy  mane,  an  unknown  man,  whose  name  will 
not  be  pronounced  throughout  this  ceremony  al- 
though it  ought  to  be  on  every  lip.  It  is  in  his 
honour  that  this  fete  takes  place ;  it  is  he  who  has 
given  cause  for  this  glorious  requiem  of  monarchy 
in  presence  of  the  last  gentlemen  of  France  and  of 
the  royal  families  exiled  in  Paris ;  for  they  are  all 
there,  those  exiles,  those  dethroned  ones,  come  to 
do  honour  to  their  cousin  Christian ;  and  it  has  not 
been  a  small  matter  to  place  those  crowns  in  their 
due  rank.  Nowhere  are  questions  of  precedence 


At  the  Academy.  235 

more  difficult  to  solve  than  in  exile,  where  vanities 
are  embittered,  and  susceptibilities  may  be  enven- 
omed into  actual  wounds. 

In  the  box  Descartes  —  all  the  boxes  bear  the 
names  of  the  statues  beneath  them  —  the  king  of 
Westphalia  maintains  a  haughty  attitude,  which 
renders  the  more  observable  the  fixity  of  his  eyes, 
eyes  which  look,  but  do  not  see.  His  constant 
effort  is  to  hide  'his  irremediable  blindness ;  and 
his  daughter  aids  him  in  this  with  her  devotion,  — 
that  tall,  slender  creature,  whose  head  seems  ever 
bending  beneath  the  weight  of  its  golden  hair,  the 
colour  of  which  she  so  carefully  conceals  from  her 
father.  The  blind  king  likes  brunettes  only.  "  If 
you  had  been  a  blonde,"  he  says  sometimes,  strok- 
ing his  daughter's  hair,  "  I  think  I  should  have  loved 
you  less."  A  remarkable  couple,  walking  their  road 
of  exile  with  the  dignity,  the  lofty  calmness  of  a 
promenade  in  a  royal  park.  When  Queen  Frede- 
rica  in  her  hours  of  depression  thought  of  that 
helpless  infirmity  guided  by  that  sweet  innocence, 
she  was  comforted  and  strengthened  by  the  spell, 
so  pure,  that  issued  from  them. 

Farther  on,  behold,  in  a  turban  of  dazzling  satin, 
the  solid  Queen  of  Galicia,  who  resembles,  with  her 
massive  cheeks  and  high  colour,  a  blood-orange 
in  its  coarse  skin.  She  enters  with  a  great  stir 
about  her,  puffs,  fans  herself,  laughs  and  talks  with 
a  woman,  still  young,  who  wears  a  white  mantilla 
on  her  head,  and  has  a  sad,  kind  countenance, 
furrowed  by  the  track  of  tears  from  the  rather 
reddened  eyes  to  the  pallid  mouth.  This  is  the 


236  Kings  in  Exile. 

Duchess  of  Palma.  an  excellent  creature,  little 
fitted  to  bear  the  shocks  and  terrors  to  which  the 
adventurous  highwayman  of  a  sovereign  to  whom 
her  life  is  bound  condemns  her.  He  is  there,  he 
too,  the  tall  duke,  sticking  familiarly  between  the 
two  women  his  shiny  black  beard  and  his  insolent 
face,  bronzed  by  his  last  expedition,  as  costly  and 
disastrous  as  those  that  preceded  it.  He  has  played 
at  being  king,  had  a  Court,  fetes,  women,  Te  Deums, 
and  paths  strewn  with  flowers.  He  has  caracoled, 
decreed,  danced,  made  ink  and  powder  speak,  shed 
blood,  sown  hatreds.  And  the  battle  lost,  the 
sauve-qui-pent  cried  out  by  himself,  he  returns  to 
Paris  to  seek  for  new  recruits  to  risk,  more  millions 
to  melt,  wearing  always  a  garb  of  travel  and  adven- 
ture, a  frock-coat  tight  to  the  figure,  buttoned  and 
frogged  in  a  way  that  makes  him  look  like  a  vaga- 
bond. A  noisy  youth  clusters  in  this  box,  talking 
loud  with  the  freedom  of  the  Court  of  Queen 
Pomar6;  and  the  national  language,  rough  and 
hoarse,  bounds  in  Biscayan  missiles  from  one  to 
another,  accompanied  with  familiarities  of  speech, 
the  privacies  of  which  are  heard  throughout  the 
hall. 

Singular  thing !  on  a  day  when  all  the  good 
places  are  so  hard  to  obtain  that  princes  of  the 
blood  are  lost  in  the  amphitheatre,  a  small  box, 
Bossuet's  box,  stands  empty.  Every  one  is  asking 
who  can  be  coming  there,  what  great  dignitary, 
what  sovereign  passing  through  Paris  is  so  late  in 
arriving  that  the  session  is  now  to  begin  without 
him.  The  old  clock  strikes  the  hour:  One.  A 


At  the  Academy.  237 

curt  voice  calls  without :  "  Present,  arms  !  "  and 
during  the  automatic  rattle  of  the  handled  muskets, 
through  the  tall  doors,  both  wide  open,  LETTERS, 
SCIENCES,  and  ARTS  make  their  appearance. 

What  is  most  remarkable  among  these  illustrious 
beings,  all  alert  and  lively,  preserved,  as  one  might 
say,  by  the  principle,  the  will  of  tradition,  is 
that  the  older  ones  affect  a  juvenile  bearing,  a 
frisky  dash,  whereas  the  younger  ones  endeavour 
to  appear  more  grave  and  solemn  according  as 
they  have  fewer  gray  hairs  upon  their  head.  Their 
general  aspect  lacks  grandeur,  owing  perhaps  to 
our  modern  curtailment  of  locks  and  the  black 
cloth  of  the  frock-coat.  The  wigs  of  Boileau  and 
of  Racan  (whose  greyhound  bitch  ate  up  his 
speech)  must  have  had  more  authority,  rising  as 
they  did  more  worthily  in  keeping  with  the  cupola. 
In  the  matter  of  picturesqueness,  however,  two  or 
three  frock-coats  tinged  with  green  installed  them- 
selves in  the  centre  behind  the  table  and  the  glass 
of  eau  sucrte ;  and  it  was  one  of  these  who  pro- 
nounced the  hallowed  words :  "  The  session  is 
opened."  But  in  vain  does  he  say  so;  nobody 
believes  it;  he  does  not  believe  it  himself.  He 
knows  very  well  that  the  true  session  is  not  for 
the  reception  of  this  report  on  the  Montyon  prize, 
which  one  of  the  most  fluent  of  the  Academy 
proceeds  to  detail  and  modulate  in  fine  rhythmic 
accents. 

Truly,  a  model  of  academic  speech,  written  in 
academic  style,  with  "  so-to-speaks  "  and  "  per- 
hapses "  that  seem  to  make  thought  return  upon 


238  Kings  in  Exile. 

its  steps  like  a  pious  woman  forgetting  her  sins 
at  confession ;  a  style  adorned  with  arabesques, 
paraphrases,  fine  flourishes  of  a  masterly  pen  at 
writing  running  among  the  sentences  to  mask  and 
fill  out  the  void,  —  a  style,  in  short,  that  ought  to 
be  learned,  for  every  one  has  to  put  it  on  with  the 
frock-coat  webbed  with  green.  Under  all  other 
circumstances,  the  usual  audience  of  this  hall 
would  have  been  ecstatic  over  this  homily;  you 
would  have  seen  it  pawing  and  neighing  with 
delight  at  the  tortuous  little  phrases  of  which  it 
could  guess  the  outcome.  But  to-day  there  is 
haste  to  get  through  with  such  speeches ;  the  peo- 
ple now  assembled  are  not  here  for  a  literary  fete. 
It  was  worth  seeing  with  what  an  air  of  contemp- 
tuous ennui  the  aristocratic  company  listened  to 
the  recital  of  humble  devotions,  fidelity  under 
all  tests,  obscure,  jogging,  bent-in-two  existences, 
as  they  passed  before  them  in  that  finical  superan- 
nuated phraseology  which  resembled  the  narrow, 
fireless,  brick-paved  passages  of  the  provinces 
where  those  lives  evolved  themselves.  Plebeian 
names,  ragged  cassocks,  old  blue  smocks  faded  by 
sun  and  water,  scenes  in  distant  villages,  where  for 
an  instant  the  pointed  clock-tower  and  the  walls  of 
hovels  plastered  with  cow-dung  are  visible  —  all  of 
which  seems  abashed  and  ill  at  ease  when  evoked 
in  the  midst  of  this  fine  company,  beneath  the  cold 
light  of  an  inconsiderate  Academy  as  in  the  show 
window  of  a  photographer.  The  noble  society  is 
surprised  that  there  are  so  many  worthy  persons 
among  the  populace.  .  .  What,  more !  .  .  Still 


At  the  Academy.  239 

more?  .  .  Will  they  never  have  done  suffering, 
devoting  their  lives,  being  heroic?  .  .  So  say  the 
clubs  impatiently.  Colette  de  Rosen  smells  her 
salts;  all  these  old  people,  these  humble  people 
they  are  talking  about,  have,  she  thinks,  "  the 
poor  smell."  Ennui  is  on  all  foreheads,  it  oozes 
from  the  stuccoes  of  the  wall.  The  speaker  begins 
to  understand  that  he  is  boring  his  audience,  and 
he  hurries  to  an  end. 

Ah !  poor  Marie  Chalaye  of  Amberieux-les- 
Combes,  you  whom  the  people  of  your  region  call 
the  Saint,  who  for  fifty  years  have  taken  care  of 
your  old  paralytic  aunt,  and  washed,  put  to  bed, 
and  blown  the  noses  of  eighteen  little  cousins; 
and  you,  most  worthy  Abbe  Bourrillon,  minister 
of  Saint-Maximin-le-Haut,  you  who  go  in  fiendish 
weather  to  carry  succour  and  consolation  to  the 
cheese-makers  on  the  mountain,  you  little  think 
that  the  Institute  of  France,  after  crowning  your 
deeds  with  public  recompense,  will  be  ashamed 
of  you,  and  that  your  names  will  be  hurried  over 
and  stuttered  and  scarcely  distinct  in  the  inatten 
tive  buzz  of  impatient  or  satirical  conversations ! 
The  end  of  the  speech  was  a  complete  rout.  As 
if  to  run  faster,  the  fugitive  cast  away  haversack 
and  weapons ;  deeds  of  heroism,  angelic  abnega- 
tions are  abandoned  in  a  ditch  without  the  least 
remorse,  for  the  speaker  knows  that  the  news- 
papers of  the  next  day  will  report  his  speech  in 
full,  and  not  one  of  those  pretty  sentences,  as 
twisted  as  curlpapers,  will  be  lost. 

At  last,  the  end.     A  few  "  bravos "  and  com- 


240  Kings  in  Exile. 

forted  "  Ahs ! "  The  unfortunate  speaker  sits 
down,  mops  himself,  receives  the  congratulations 
of  two  or  three  of  his  associates  —  last  vestals  of 
the  academic  style.  Then  follows  five  minutes' 
intermission,  and  a  general  rustling  through  the 
hall,  which  stretches  and  readjusts  itself. 

Suddenly  deep  silence.  Another  green  coat 
rises. 

It  is  the  noble  Fitz-Roy.  Every  one  has  per- 
mission to  admire,  while  he  arranges  his  papers 
on  the  cloth  of  the  little  table.  Thin,  bent,  debili- 
tated, narrow-shouldered,  gesture  cramped  by 
arms  too  long  and  all  elbows,  he  is  fifty  years  old, 
but  he  looks  seventy.  On  this  worn-out,  ill-built 
body  is  a  very  small  head  with  distorted  features 
of  a  boiled  pallor,  between  scanty  whiskers  and  a 
few  tufts  of  hair.  Do  you  remember  in  "  Lucrezia 
Borgia "  that  Montefeltro  who  drank  the  poison 
of  Pope  Alexander,  and  whom  we  see  passing 
across  the  stage,  plucked,  broken,  shivering, 
ashamed  of  living?  Well,  the  noble  Fitz-Roy 
might  figure  as  that  personage.  Not  that  he  ever 
drank  anything,  poor  man,  Borgia  poison  or  any- 
thing else ;  but  he  is  the  heir  of  a  horribly  ancient 
family,  which  never  crosses  itself  in  its  descen- 
dants ;  the  scion  of  a  plant  that  has  so  lost  its  sap 
that  there  is  no  longer  any  use  in  misallying  it. 
Uncle  Sauvadon  thinks  him  divine.  "  Such  a  fine 
name,  monsieur !  .  ."  Women  think  him  distin- 
guished :  a  Fitz-Roy !  .  . 

It  is  this  privilege  of  name,  this  long  genealogy 
(in  which  fools  and  knaves  have  never  been  lack- 


At  the  Academy.  241 

ing),  that  has  won  him  his  entrance  to  the  Academy 
far  more  than  his  "Historical  Studies,"  a  mere  com- 
pilation, the  first  volume  of  which  alone  showed  its 
value.  It  is  true  that  another  man  wrote  it  for 
him ;  and  if  the  noble  Fitz-Roy  had  perceived  up 
there,  in  Queen  Frederica's  box,  the  luminous  and 
solid  head  from  which  his  best  work  issued,  per- 
haps he  would  not  have  gathered  up  in  his  hand 
the  sheets  of  his  speech  with  that  air  of  supreme 
and  disdainful  surliness,  or  begun  his  lecture  with  a 
haughty  circular  glance  that  surveyed  all  and  saw 
nothing.  To  begin  with,  he  adroitly  and  airily 
clears  away  the  petty  works  the  Academy  had  just 
crowned  ;  and  to  mark  how  completely  such  affairs 
are  Ipeneath  him,  he  says  little,  and  mutilates  inten- 
tionally the  names  and  titles  of  the  books.  This 
amuses  the  audience.  .  .  He  comes  at  last  to  the 
"  Roblot  prize,"  given  to  the  finest  historical  work 
published  during  the  five  preceding  years.  "  This 
prize,  gentlemen,  as  you  know,  has  been  awarded 
to  Prince  Herbert  de  Rosen  for  his  magnificent 
'  Memorial  of  the  Siege  of  Ragusa.  .  .'"  A  formi- 
dable roar  of  applause  saluted  these  simple  words, 
uttered  in  a  resounding  voice  with  the  gesture  of  a 
sower.  The  noble  Fitz-Roy  allowed  this  burst  of 
enthusiasm  to  pass  off;  then,  using  an  effect  of 
contrast,  artless  but  sure,  he  resumed,  gently,  com- 
posedly :  "  Gentlemen  ..."  Then  he  stopped, 
looked  around  upon  that  crowd  which  waited, 
breathless,  so  wholly  his  that  he  held  it  as  it  were, 
in  his  hand.  He  seemed  to  be  saying,  "  Hein  !  if  I 
said  no  more,  how  tricked  you  would  be  !  "  And 

16 


242  Kings  in  Exile. 

it  is  he,  he,  who   is  tricked,  for  when   he  makes 
ready  to  continue,  not  a  person  listens  to  him. 

A  door  has  slammed  above,  in  the  box  left 
empty  until  now.  A  woman  has  entered;  she 
takes  her  seat  without  embarrassment,  but  in  so 
doing  forces  herself  instantly  on  the  attention  of 
every  one.  The  dark  costume,  cut  by  the  great 
maker,  trimmed  with  embroidered  peacock's-eyes, 
the  hat  with  a  fall  of  gold-edged  lace,  set  off  deli- 
ciously  that  supple  figure  and  the  oval  face,  white 
and  rosy,  of  an  Esther  sure  of  her  Ahasuerus.  The 
name  is  muttered.  All  Paris  knows  her ;  for  the 
last  three  months  nothing  has  been  talked  of  but 
her  loves  and  her  luxury.  Her  house  in  the 
Avenue  de  Messine  recalls  the  splendours  of  the 
fine  days  of  the  second  Empire^  The  newspapers 
have  given  the  details  of  this  fashionable  scandal, 
the  height  of  the  stables,  the  cost  of  the  pictures  in 
the  dining-room,  the  number  of  equipages,  the  dis- 
appearance of  the  husband,  who,  more  virtuous  than 
another  celebrated  Menelaus,  would  not  live  on  his 
dishonour,  but  had  gone  to  sulk  in  foreign  parts,  a 
victim  to  the  great  century.  Nothing  was  lacking 
to  these  chronicles  but  the  name  of  the  purchaser, 
which  was  left  in  blank.  At  the  theatres  .the  lady 
was  always  alone  in  the  front  of  her  box,  escorted 
by  a  pair  of  pointed  moustaches,  barely  visible  in 
the  shadow.  At  the  races,  in  the  Bois,  still  alone, 
the  empty  place  beside  her  occupied  by  an 
enormous  bouquet;  while  on  the  panels  of  her 
carriage  around  a  mysterious  blazon,  was  the 
silly  device,  mon  droit,  mon  roy,  with  which  her 


At  the  Academy.  243 

lover  had  endowed  her  together  with  the  title  of 
countess.  .  . 

On  this  occasion,  the  favourite  was  proclaimed. 
To  place  her  there,  on  such  a  day,  in  these  seats  of 
honour  reserved  for  Majesties,  giving  her  for  escort 
Wattelet,  Christian's  henchman,  and  the  Prince 
d'Axel,  always  ready  when  a  compromising  folly 
was  to  be  committed,  meant  acknowledging  her  be- 
fore the  eyes  of  all  and  stamping  her  with  the  arms 
of  Illyria.  And  yet  her  presence  excited  no  out- 
raged feeling.  All  sorts  of  immunities  are  granted 
to  kings  ;  their  pleasures  are  as  sacred  as  their  per- 
sons ;  especially  in  the  aristocratic  world  of  Old 
France,  where  the  tradition  of  Louis  XIV. 's  and 
Louis  XV. 's  mistresses,  driving  in  the  Queen's  car- 
riage and  supplanting  her  in  the  great  hunts,  is  still 
preserved.  A  few  little  sham  prudes  like  Colette 
de  Rosen  took  virtuous  airs  and  wondered  that  the 
Institute  should  admit  such  creatures ;  but  you 
may  be  sure  that  each  of  these  ladies  had  a  pretty 
little  ouistiti  at  home  that  was  dying  of  consump- 
tion. In  point  of  fact,  the  impression  made  was 
excellent.  The  clubs  said :  "  Very  chic."  The 
journalists  :  "  That 's  pluck  !  .  ."  They  all  smiled 
benevolently ;  and  the  immortals  themselves  turned 
their  opera-glasses  complacently  on  the  fascinating 
young  woman,  who  sat  unaffectedly  at  the  edge  of 
her  box,  merely  showing  in  her  velvet  eyes  that 
resolute  fixity  assumed  by  women  when  besieged 
by  the  attention  of  opera-glasses. 

People  turned  with  curiosity  toward  the  Queen 
of  Illyria  to  see  how  she   took  the   thing.     Oh ! 


244  Kings  in  Exile. 

extremely  well.  Not  a  feature  of  her  face,  not  a 
feather  in  her  bonnet  quivered.  Never  mingling 
in  current  amusements,  Frederica  did  not,  of  course, 
know  this  woman ;  she  had  never  seen  her,  and 
merely  looked  at  her,  at  first,  as  one  toilet  looks 
at  another.  "Who  is  she?"  she  asked  of  the 
Queen  of  Palermo,  who  hastened  to  answer :  "  I 
don't  know.  .  ."  But  in  the  next  box  a  name 
loudly  uttered  and  repeated  struck  her  to  the 
heart :  "  Spalato  .  .  .  Comtesse  de  Spalato." 

For  some  months,  that  name  of  Spalato  had 
haunted  her  like  an  evil  dream.  She  knew  it  was 
borne  by  the  new  mistress  of  her  husband,  who 
remembered  he  was  king  only  to  decorate  with  one 
of  the  noblest  titles  of  his  absent  country  the 
creature  of  his  pleasure.  That  thought  had  ren- 
dered this  infidelity  more  bitter  to  her  than  others. 
But  this  present  act  overflowed  the  cup.  There, 
in  her  presence  and  that  of  the  royal  heir,  that 
woman  installed  in  the  rank  of  a  queen  —  what  out- 
rage !  Almost  without  being  conscious  of  it,  the 
grave  and  intelligent  beauty  of  the  woman  made 
Frederica  feel  the  gross  insult  more  keenly. 
Defiance  was  clear  in  those  fine  eyes,  the  brow  was 
insolent  in  its  composure,  the  brilliancy  of  those 
lips  braved  her.  .  .  A  thousand  thoughts  jostled 
in  her  brain  .  .  .  their  great  poverty  .  .  .  her  daily 
humiliations  .  .  .  yesterday  that  carriage-builder 
who  shouted  beneath  her  windows,  and  whom 
Rosen  had  paid  —  for  she  had  had  to  come  to 
that.  .  .  Where  did  Christian  get  the  money  that 
he  gave  to  this  woman  ?  .  .  Ever  since  the  affair  of 


At  the  Academy.  245 

the  false  jewels  she  knew  of  what  he  was  capable; 
and  something  told  her  that  this  Spalato  would 
lead  to  the  dishonour  of  the  king,  and  of  his  race. 
For  an  instant,  a  second,  through  that  intense 
nature  there  passed  the  temptation  to  rise,  to  leave 
the  hall,  leading  her  child  by  the  hand,  to  escape 
openly  from  a  neighbourhood  so  infamous,  a 
rivalry  so  degrading.  But  she  remembered  she 
was  queen,  wife  and  daughter  of  kings,  that  Zara 
would  be  a  king  also ;  and  she  would  not  give  their 
enemies  the  joy  of  such  a  scandal.  A  dignity, 
higher  than  her  dignity  of  womanhood,  a  dignity 
which  she  had  made  the  proud,  despairing  rule  of 
her  life,  maintained  her  in  her  rank  here  in  public 
as  in  the  secrecy  of  her  desolated  home.  O  cruel 
fate  of  queens  who  are  so  envied  !  The  effort  that 
she  made  was  so  violent  that  the  tears  started  to 
her  eyes  as  the  still  water  of  a  pond  leaps  under 
the  blow  of  an  oar.  Quickly,  that  no  one  may 
see  them,  she  seizes  her  opera-glass  and  looks 
obstinately,  fixedly,  beyond  the  misty  mirrors  to 
that  gilded  and  reposeful  inscription :  LETTERS, 
SCIENCES,  ARTS,  iridescent  through  her  tears 
above  the  head  of  the  orator. 

The  noble  Fitz-Roy  is  continuing  his  speech. 
It  is  in  a  style  as  gray  as  a  prison  coat  that 
pompous  eulogy  of  the  "  Memorial,"  of  the  elo- 
quent and  forceful  historical  volume  written  by 
Prince  Herbert  de  Rosen  "  who  wields  a  pen  as  he 
does  a  sword."  It  is  a  eulogy  above  all  of  the 
hero  who  inspired  that  Memorial,  "  that  chivalrous 
Christian  II.  in  whom  were  centred  all  the  grace, 


246  Kings  in  Exile. 

nobility,  strength,  seduction,  and  fine  temper 
which  we  are  ever  certain  to  find  on  the  steps  of 
a  throne."  [Applause,  and  little  cries  of  ecstasy.] 
Evidently  a  good  audience,  sensible,  alert,  seizing 
all  illusions  on  the  fly,  even  the  most  feeling,  and 
comprehending  them.  .  .  Sometimes,  in  the  midst 
of  those  mealy  sentences,  a  note  would  ring  true 
and  convincing,  a  passage  quoted  from  the  "  Me- 
morial," for  which  the  queen  had  furnished  all 
the  documents,  substituting  everywhere  the  king's 
name  for  hers,  annihilating  herself  to  the  profit 
of  Christian  II.  ..  O  God  of  justice  !  this  was  his 
return !  .  .  The  crowd  cheered  loudly  at  those 
quoted  words  of  haughty,  careless  courage,  of  acts 
heroic,  simply  performed,  —  told  by  the  writer  in 
graphic  prose,  in  which  they  stood  revealed  like 
epic  tales  of  ancient  times ;  and,  i'  faith !  before 
the  enthusiastic  greeting  given  to  these  quotations, 
the  noble  Fitz-Roy,  who  is  no  fool,  renounced  his 
own  literature,  and  contented  himself  with  reading 
aloud  the  finest  pages  of  the  book. 

In  that  narrow  classic  building  'twas  like  a 
lifting,  vivifying  wing ;  the  very  walls  seemed  to 
widen,  and  through  the  rising  cupola  a  fresh  breeze 
entered  from  an  outer  world.  People  drew  breath  ; 
fans  no  longer  beat  a  rhythmic  time  to  indifferent 
attention.  No,  the  whole  audience  are  standing, 
all  heads  turned  to  Frederica's  box ;  they  acclaim, 
they  salute  the  vanquished  but  glorious  monarchy 
in  the  wife  and  son  of  Christian  II.,  the  last  king, 
the  last  knight.  And  little  Zara,  whom  the  noise, 
the  bravos  intoxicated,  as  they  do  all  children, 


At  the  Academy.  247 

applauded  naively  with  his  little  gloved  hands, 
tossing  his  golden  curls,  while  the  queen,  retreat- 
ing slightly  backward,  affected  herself  by  this  con- 
tagious enthusiasm,  tasted,  for  a  minute,  the  joy, 
the  illusion  that  it  gave  her.  Thus  it  was  that  she 
could  still  surround  with  a  halo  that  puppet  of  a 
king  behind  whom  she  effaced  herself,  and  enrich 
with  a  fresh  glory  the  Illyrian  crown  that  her  son 
would  one  day  wear,  a  glory  that  no  one  could 
ever  traffic  with.  When  that  day  came,  what  of 
exile,  treachery,  poverty?  and  even  now  these 
dazzling  moments  drown  all  present  shadow.  .  . 
Suddenly  she  turned,  thinking  to  pay  the  homage 
of  her  joy  to  him  who,  there,  behind  her,  his  head 
against  the  wall,  his  eyes  lost  in  the  cupola, 
listened  to  those  magic  phrases  in  pure  forget- 
fulness  that  they  came  from  him ;  assisting  at  this 
triumph  without  regret,  without  bitterness,  without 
for  one  instant  saying  to  himself  that  all  this  fame 
was  stolen  from  him.  Like  the  monks  of  the  mid- 
dle ages  growing  old  anonymously  in  the  building 
of  cathedrals,  the  weaver's  son  was  content  to  have 
done  the  work,  to  see  it  rise,  solid,  in  the  sun- 
shine. And  for  that  abnegation,  that  aloofness  of 
his  seer's  smile,  for  that  which  she  felt  in  him  was 
like  unto  herself,  the  queen  stretched  out  her  hand 
to  him  with  a  soft  "  Thank  you  .  .  .  thank  you.  .  ." 
Rosen,  who  stood  nearest  to  her,  thought  she  was 
congratulating  him  on  the  success  of  his  son.  He 
caught  the  grateful  gesture  as  it  passed  him  and 
rubbed  his  rough  moustache  on  her  glove ;  and 
the  two  victims,  happy  in  the  triumph,  were  re- 


248  Kings  in  Exile. 

duced  to  exchange  at  a  distance  in  a  look  the 
unuttered  thoughts  that  unite  two  souls  in  bonds 
mysterious  and  durable. 

'T  is  over.  The  session  ends.  The  noble  Fitz- 
Roy,  applauded,  complimented,  disappears,  as  if 
through  a  trap-door ;  the  LETTERS,  SCIENCES,  and 
ARTS  follow  him,  leaving  the  platform  empty.  By 
all  the  issues  the  crowd  makes  haste  to  spread 
about,  as  at  the  close  of  an  assembly  or  the  opera, 
those  rumours  which,  on  the  following  day  are  to 
form  the  opinion  of  all  Paris.  Among  the  worthy 
people  thus  departing,  some,  pursuing  their  retro- 
grade dreaming,  might  well  expect  to  find  their 
sedan  chairs  waiting  before  the  doors  of  the  Insti- 
tute. It  was  rain  that  awaited  them,  streaming 
down  on  the  hurly-burly  of  omnibuses  and  the 
carnival-like  butting  of  street  cars.  The  privi- 
leged alone,  in  their  well-appointed  carriages  were 
able  to  still  nurse  their  fond  royalistic  illusions. 

Under  the  great  colonnaded  portico,  while  a 
crier  called  up  the  royal  equipages  through  the 
wet  and  shining  courtyard,  't  was  a  pleasure  to 
hear  the  animated  cackle  of  that  aristocratic 
world  while  awaiting  the  issue  of  the  Majesties: 
What  a  session  !  .  .  What  a  success  !  .  .  Could 
the  Republic  ever  recover  from  it?  .  .  The  Prin- 
cesse  de  Rosen  is  surrounded :  "  You  must  be 
very  happy  !  "  —  "  Oh,  yes  !  very  happy."  And 
the  pretty  creature  ambled  and  bowed  to  right 
and  left  like  a  trained  filly  in  a  circus.  Uncle 
Sauvadon  did  his  best  beside  her  though  still 
embarrassed  by  his  white  cravat  and  his  butler's 


At  the  Academy.  249 

shirt-front,  which  he  strove  to  conceal  behind  his 
hat,  but  very  proud  all  the  same  of  his  nephew's 
success.  Certainly  no  one  knew  better  than  he 
what  was  the  true  texture  of  that  success,  and  that 
Prince  Herbert  had  not  written  a  single  line  of  the 
crowned  work;  but  at  that  moment  he  never  so 
much  as  thought  of  this.  Nor  Colette  either,  I 
do  assure  you.  True  Sauvadon  in  vanity,  ap- 
pearances sufficed  her  ;  and  when  she  saw,  prick- 
ing forward  through  the  group  of  gommeux  who 
were  congratulating  her,  the  waxed  points  of  her 
Herbert's  enormous  moustache  coming  to  meet 
her,  it  was  all  she  could  do  not  to  throw  herself 
upon  his  breast  before  the  assembled  company,  so 
convinced  was  she  that  he  had  managed  the  siege 
of  Ragusa,  and  written  the  Memorial,  and  that  his 
splendid  moustache  did  not  conceal  the  jaws  of  a 
gaby.  If  the  kind,  good  fellow  was  delighted  and 
overcome  by  the  ovation  made  to  him  and  the 
glances  flung  in  his  direction  (the  noble  Fitz-Roy 
had  said  to  him,  solemnly :  "  Whenever  you  wish 
it,  prince,  you  can  be  one  of  us"),  nothing  was  to 
him  more  precious  than  this  unexpected  greeting 
of  his  Colette,  the  almost  loverlike  manner  in 
which  she  hung  upon  his  arm,  —  a  thing  that  had 
not  happened  to  him  since  the  day  of  their  mar- 
riage, when  they  walked  down  the  nave  to  the 
grand  roll  of  the  organ  in  the  choir  of  Saint- 
Thomas  d'Aquin. 

But  see,  the  crowd  makes  way ;  respectfully,  the 
hats  come  off.  The  guests  in  the  boxes  are  com- 
ing down ;  all  those  fallen  Majesties,  who  are  now 


250  Kings  in  Exile. 

to  return  into  darkness  after  this  brief  resurrection. 
A  regular  defile  of  royal  shadows,  the  old  blind 
man  leaning  on  his  daughter,  the  Galician  queen 
with  her  handsome  nephew,  a  rustling  of  stiff  stuffs 
as  at  the  passage  of  a  Peruvian  Madonna.  Lastly, 
the  Queen  of  Illyria,  her  cousin,  and  her  son.  The 
royal  landau  is  driven  to  the  portico ;  she  enters 
it,  amid  an  admiring  but  restrained  murmur,  beau- 
tiful, her  brow  lofty,  radiant.  The  queen  of  the 
left  hand  and  secret  stairways  has  already  departed 
with  d'Axel  and  Wattelet,  so  that  nothing  mars  the 
full  glory  of  this  exit.  .  . 

Nothing  further  was  now  to  be  seen,  or  said. 
The  tall  footmen  rushed  forward  with  their  um- 
brellas. For  an  hour  it  was  nothing  but  pawing, 
stamping,  the  rolling  of  wheels,  the  slamming  of 
carriage  doors,  mingled  with  dripping  water,  and 
names  shouted  and  repeated  by  the  stony  echoes 
which  haunt  old  buildings  and  are  seldom  disturbed 
in  the  ancient  Institute  of  France. 

That  evening,  the  coquettish  allegories  of  Bou- 
cher painted  on  the  panels  of  Herbert  de  Rosen's 
bed-chamber  were  roused  from  their  languM  atti- 
tudes and  rather  faded  colours  by  the  warbling  of 
a  little  voice :  "It  is  I  ...  it  is  Colette."  It  was 
indeed  Colette,  wrapped  in  a  mantle  of  floating 
mechlin,  who  had  come  to  say  good-night  to  her 
hero,  her  knight,  her  man  of  genius. 

At  almost  the  same  moment  FJyse'e  was  walking 
alone  in  the  garden  at  Saint-Mand^  beneath  the  rain- 
washed  verdure,  lighted  now  by  a  clear  heaven,  one 


At  the  Academy.  251 

of  those  June  heavens  in  which  the  ecliptic  light  of 
a  long  day  lingers,  defining  very  sharply  the  leafy 
shadows  on  the  wan  circle  of  the  roadway,  and 
making  the  house,  with  all  its  blinds  fast-closed, 
look  white  and  dead.  On  the  upper  story  alone 
the  king's  light  was  still  burning.  No  sound  but 
the  trickling  of  water  in  the  fountains  and  the  faint 
trill  of  a  nightingale,  to  which  its  mate  responded. 
Floating  in  the  atmosphere  were  the  penetrating 
effluences  of  magnolias,  roses,  and  southern-wood 
set  free  by  the  rain.  The  fever  that  for  two 
months,  ever  since  the  fair  at  Vincennes,  had  never 
left  filysee's  bosom,  which  burned  his  hands  and 
brow,  instead  of  growing  calmer  in  this  harmony 
of  scents  and  sounds,  was  beating,  vibrating  the 
more,  and  sending  its  waves  to  his  heart. 

"Ah  !  old  fool !  .  .  old  madman  !  .  .  "  said  a  voice 
quite  close  to  him  under  the  trees.  He  stopped, 
confounded.  It  was  so  true,  so  just,  so  exactly  what 
he  had  been  saying  to  himself  for  the  last  hour. 

"  Madman,  miserable  maniac.  .  .  You  ought  to 
be  burned  —  you  and  your  herbal." 

"  Is  that  you,  monsieur  le  conseiller?  " 

"  Don't  call  me  councillor.  .  .  I  am  no  longer 
one.  .  .  Nothing,  nothing  .  .  .  neither  honour,  nor 
intelligence.  .  .  Ah !  porco.  .  .  " 

And  Boscovich,  sobbing  with  a  passion  that  was 
truly  Italian,  shook  his  ridiculous  head  which  shone 
fantastically  in  the  light  that  fell  between  the 
branches  of  the  lindens.  The  poor  man  had  been 
for  some  time  past  a  little  off  the  track.  Some- 
times very  gay  and  gabbling,  he  bored  them  with 


252  Kings  in  Exile. 

his  herbal,  the  famous  Leybach  herbarium,  posses- 
sion of  which  he  expected  very  soon  to  recover ; 
then  suddenly,  in  the  midst  of  a  delirium  of  words, 
he  would  interrupt  himself,  give  a  sort  of  sidelong, 
underhand  look,  and  not  a  word  more  could  be 
got  out  of  him.  This  time  Elysee  thought  he  had 
gone  absolutely  crazy,  especially  when,  after  this 
childish  explosion,  he  bounded  forward  and  seized 
him  by  the  arm,  shouting  as  one  who  cries  for 
help :  — 

"  Impossible,  Meraut !  .  .     We  must  prevent  it." 
"Prevent  what?"  said  the  other,  endeavouring 
to  loosen  his  arm  from  that  nervous  grip. 

Boscovich,  in  a  low  voice,  breathless,  answered  : 
"  The  act  of  renunciation  is  ready  .  .  .  drawn  by 
me.  .  .  His  Majesty  is  now  signing  it.  .  .  I  never 
ought  to  have.  .  .  Ma  che  !  .  .  ma  che  !  .  .  He  is 
the  king.  .  .  And  then  my  herbal,  my  Leybach 
herbal  he  promised  to  recover  for  me.  .  .  Such 
magnificent  specimens  !  .  . " 

The  maniac  was  off  upon  his  topic,  but  Elysee 
did  not  listen  to  him ;  he  was  stunned  by  the  ter- 
rible blow.  His  (first,  his  only  thought  was  for  the 
queen.  This,  then,  was  the  reward  of  her  devo- 
tion, her  abnegation,  the  end  of  this  day  of  sacri- 
fice !  .  .  What  nothingness  was  that  glory  wreathed 
about  a  head  that  did  not  like  a  crown  of  any 
kind  !  .  .  In  the  suddenly  darkened  garden  he  saw 
nothing  but  that  one  light  up  there,  lighting  the 
commission  of  a  crime.  What  must  be  done? 
How  prevent  it?  .  .  The  queen,  she  alone.  .  .  But 
how  could  he  reach  her?  . 


At  the  Academy.  253 

The  maid  on  duty,  Mme.  de  Silvis  dreaming  of 
fairies,  the  queen  herself,  every  one  believed  that 
the  sleeping  house  was  on  fire  when  filysee  de- 
manded to  see  her  Majesty  at  once.  A  cackle  of 
fluttered  women  was  heard  through  the  rooms  like 
a  dovecote  awakened  too  early.  At  last  Frederica 
appeared  in  the  little  salon  where  the  tutor  awaited 
her,  wrapped  in  a  long  blue  peignoir  which  moulded 
finely  her  arms  and  shoulders.  Never  had  filys^e 
felt  so  near  to  the  woman  herself. 

"What  is  it?"  she  asked  very  low,  very  quickly, 
with  that  flicker  of  the  eyelids  which  expects  and 
sees  the  coming  blow.  At  the  first  word  she 
bounded. 

"  It  cannot  be.  .  .     It  shall  not  be,  I  living !  .  .  " 

The  violence  of  her  movement  loosened  the 
phosphorescent  masses  of  her  hair,  and  she  caught 
them  up  by  a  turn  of  her  arm  with  a  free  and 
tragic  gesture  that  threw  her  sleeve  back  to  the 
elbow. 

"  Waken  his  Highness,"  she  said  in  a  low  voice 
into  the  curtained  darkness  of  her  son's  room ;  then, 
without  adding  a  word,  she  went  up  to  the  king. 


254  Kings  in  Exile. 


X. 

FAMILY  SCENE. 

ALL  the  magic  of  that  June  night  was  enter- 
ing through  the  wide-opened  window  portal  of  the 
large  upper  hall,  where  a  single  lighted  candela- 
brum left  enough  of  mystery  for  the  moonlight  to 
lie  upon  the  walls  in  a  milky  way,  and  glitter  on  the 
polished  bar  of  a  trapeze,  on  the  bow,  shaped  like 
an  arch,  of  a  guzla  hanging  to  the  wall,  and  on  the 
glass  doors  of  a  rather  scantily  furnished  book-case, 
which  the  brown-paper  cahiers  of  the  herbalist  had 
filled  with  the  sickly  and  fetid  odour  of  a  cemetery 
of  dried  plants.  On  the  table,  lying  upon  a  pile 
of  dusty  papers,  was  a  crucifix  of  tarnished  silver ; 
for  though  Christian  II.  did  not  write  much  in  this 
sanctum,  he  remembered  his  Catholic  education 
and  surrounded  himself  with  pious  objects ;  and 
sometimes,  when  "  making  fete  "  with  courtesans, 
the  trumpets  of  pleasure  blowing  breathlessly 
around  him,  he  would  finger  in  his  pocket,  with 
a  moist,  half-drunken  hand  the  coral  rosary  he  was 
never  without.  Beside  the  Christ  lay  a  large  and 
heavy  sheet  of  parchment,  closely  written  over  in 
a  rather  trembling  hand.  This  was  the  act  of  re- 
nunciation of  the  kingdom,  properly  drawn  up. 
Nothing  was  lacking  to  it  but  the  signature,  a 


Family  Scene.  255 

stroke  of  a  pen,  a  violent  effort  of  will ;  and  that 
was  why  the  feeble  Christian  still  delayed,  his 
elbows  on  the  table,  motionless  beneath  the  light 
of  the  wax  candles  waiting  to  melt  the  wax  for  the 
royal  seal. 

Near  him,  uneasy,  ferreting,  softly  silent  as  a 
hawk-moth  or  the  swifts  in  a  ruin,  Lebeau,  his 
confidential  valet,  watched  him,  spurred  him 
mutely,  having  brought  him  at  last  to  the  de- 
cisive moment  which  the  band  had  been  awaiting 
for  months,  with  ups  and  downs  and  beating  hearts 
and  all  the  uncertainties  of  a  game  that  had  to 
depend  on  that  rag  of  a  king.  Notwithstanding 
the  magnetism  of  this  oppressing  desire,  Christian, 
with  the  pen  in  his  fingers,  did  not  sign.  Plunged, 
almost  sunken  in  his  arm-chair,  he  gazed  at  the 
parchment  and  dreamed.  It  was  not  that  he  clung 
to  the  crown  he  had  never  desired  or  loved,  which, 
even  as  a  child,  he  found  too  heavy,  feeling  later 
its  irritating  bonds,  its  crushing  responsibilities. 
To  be  rid  of  it,  to  put  it  in  the  corner  of  a  salon 
he  would  never  enter,  to  forget  it  as  much  as  he 
could  —  that  much  was  done  already ;  but  this 
determination,  this  extreme  decision  to  make,  was 
what  frightened  him.  In  no  other  way,  however, 
could  he  procure  the  money  that  was  indispen- 
sable to  his  new  existence ;  three  millions  in  notes 
signed  by  him  were  in  circulation  and  about  to  fall 
due,  which  the  usurer,  a  certain  Pichery,  refused 
to  renew.  Could  he  allow  everything  to  be  seized 
atSaint-Mande?  The  queen,  the  royal  child,  what 
would  become  of  them  ?  Scene  for  scene  —  for  he 


256  Kings  in  Exile. 

foresaw  the  fearful  echoes  of  his  baseness  —  was  it 
not  better  to  have  it  over  at  once,  to  face  at  one 
stroke  both  anger  and  recriminations?  And  then 
—  and  then,  all  that,  even,  was  not  the  determin- 
ing reason. 

He  had  promised  the  countess  to  sign  the  re- 
nunciation ;  and  in  view  of  that  promise,  Se"phora 
had  consented  to  let  her  husband  go  alone  to 
London,  and  to  accept  the  mansion  in  the  Avenue 
de  Messine  and  the  name  and  title  which  pro- 
claimed her  as  belonging  to  Christian,  reserving 
other  compliances  until  the  day  when  the  king 
should  bring  her  the  act  itself,  signed  by  his  hand. 
For  this  she  gave  the  reasons  of  a  loving  woman  : 
perhaps  he  would,  later,  return  to  Illyria,  abandon 
her  for  throne  and  power;  she  would  not  be  the 
first  whom  those  terrible  reasons  of  State  had 
driven  to  despair  and  weeping.  D'Axel  and 
Wattelet  and  all  the  young  gommeux  of  the 
Grand-Club  little  knew  that  when  the  king, 
leaving  the  Avenue  de  Messine,  joined  them  at 
the  club,  his  eyes  worn-out  and  feverish,  that  he 
had  spent  his  evening  on  a  sofa  alternately  re- 
pulsed and  attracted,  strung  and  vibrating  like 
a  bow,  rolling  at  the  feet  of  an  implacable  will, 
a  supple  resistance,  which  left  in  his  passionate 
clasp  the  ice  of  two  little  Parisian  hands,  clever  at 
freeing  and  defending  themselves,  and  on  his  lips 
the  burn  of  a  delirious  promise*  "  Oh  !  when  you 
are  no  longer  a  king,  all  —  all !  "  She  made  him 
pass  through  the  intermittences,  dangerous  in- 
deed, from  passion  to  coldness.  Sometimes,  at 


Family  Scene.  257 

the  theatre,  after  a  frigid  greeting,  a  stately  smile, 
she  had  a  certain  slow  way  of  taking  off  her  glove 
as  she  looked  at  him  and  giving  her  bare  hand  an 
offering  to  his  kisses 

"  So  you  say,  Lebeau,  that  Pichery  will  do 
nothing?" 

"  Nothing,  sire.  .  .  If  the  notes  are  not  paid  he 
will  put  them  at  once  into  the  sheriff's  hands." 

It  was  needful  to  have  heard  the  despairing 
whine  which  emphasized  that  word  "  sheriff"  in 
order  to  understand  the  dangerous  formalities  that 
Christian  was  dragging  after  him  :  stamped  paper ; 
execution ;  the  royal  mansion  invaded ;  the  home 
turned  out  of  doors.  But  Christian  saw  nothing  of 
all  that.  He  saw  himself  arriving  in  the  Avenue 
de  Messine,  anxious,  trembling,  going  up  that 
mysteriously  draped  staircase  stealthily,  entering 
that  room  where  the  lamp  shone  dim  beneath  its 
laces :  "  'T  is  done,  't  is  done  !  I  am  a  king  no 
longer.  .  .  To  me,  all  ...  all !  " 

"  Come !  "  he  said  with  a  start,  as  the  vision 
fled  before  him.  And  he  signed  the  deed. 

The  door  opened.  The  queen  entered.  Her 
presence  in  Christian's  apartment  at  this  hour  was 
so  novel,  so  unexpected,  they  had  so  long  lived 
apart  from  each  other,  that  neither  the  king  who 
was  signing  his  infamy,  nor  Lebeau  who  was 
watching  him,  turned  at  the  sound.  They  thought 
it  was  Boscovich  coming  back  from  the  garden. 
Gliding  and  light  as  a  shadow  she  was  almost 
beside  the  table  and  the  two  accomplices  before 
Lebeau  saw  her.  By  a  finger  on  her  lips  she 


258  Kings  in  Exile. 

ordered  him  to  be  silent  as  she  still  advanced, 
meaning  to  seize  the  king  in  the  act  of  treachery, 
and  so  avoid  subterfuges  and  useless  deceptions. 
But  the  valet  defied  her  order  and  gave  the  alarm : 
"  Sire,  the  queen !  .  .  "  Furious,  the  Dalmatian 
struck  out  before  her,  with  her  firm,  horsewoman's 
hand,  directly  on  the  mouth  of  the  evil-minded 
wretch;  then,  standing  erect,  she  waited  till  the 
valet  had  disappeared  before  she  addressed  the 
king. 

"  What  has  happened  to  you,  my  dear  Fre- 
derica?  Why  have  you  come  to  me?  " 

He  was  standing  now,  half  leaning  on  the  table, 
which  he  tried  to  conceal,  in  a  supple  attitude  that 
showed  to  advantage  his  foulard  jacket  embroidered 
in  rose,  and  speaking  with  pale  lips  but  a  calm 
voice  and  that  grace  of  politeness  which  he  never 
omitted  towards  his  wife,  putting  between  them  a 
certain  something  like  the  flowery  and  complicated 
arabesques  on  the  hard,  polished  lacquer  of  a 
casket.  With  a  word,  a  gesture,  she  brushed  away 
that  barrier,  behind  which  he  was  trying  to  shelter 
himself. 

"  Oh  !  no  speeches  ...  no  pretences  ...  I  know 
what  you  are  writing  there !  .  .  do  not  try  to  de- 
ceive me.  .  ." 

Then  coming  nearer,  and  dominating  with  her 
proud  form  that  cringing  figure,  — 

"  Listen,  Christian  ..."  she  said,  and  in  her 
tone  there  was  something  grave  and  solemn. 
"  Listen  .  .  .  you  have  made  me  suffer  much  since 
I  have  been  your  wife.  .  .  I  have  said  nothing 


Family  Scene.  259 

but  once,  that  first  time,  you  remember?  .  .  After 
that,  when  I  saw  that  you  loved  me  no  longer,  I 
allowed  you  to  do  as  you  pleased;  but  I  was 
ignorant  of  nothing,  nothing  .  .  .  not  one  of  your 
infidelities,  your  mad  follies.  For  surely  you  are 
mad  .  .  .  mad  as  your  father,  who  exhausted  him- 
self with  his  love  for  Lola;  mad  as  your  grand- 
father John,  who  died  in  a  shameful  delirium, 
foaming,  and  with  his  very  death-rattle  uttering 
words  that  turned  the  nursing  Sisters  white.  Yes  ! 
it  is  the  same  mad  blood,  the  same  hellish  lava  that 
consumes  you.  At  Ragusa,  the  nights  of  the 
sorties,  they  had  to  fetch  you  from  Fedora's.  .  .  I 
knew  that;  I  knew  she  had  left  her  theatre  to 
follow  you.  .  .  I  have  never  reproached  you. 
The  honour  of  the  name  was  safe  with  me.  .  . 
And  when  the  king  was  missing  on  the  ramparts,  I 
took  good  care  that  his  place  was  not  empty.  .  . 
But  in  Paris  ...  in  Paris  ..." 

Up  to  this  point  she  had  spoken  slowly,  coldly, 
keeping  to  the  end  of  each  sentence  an  intonation 
of  pity,  of  maternal  reproach  which  accorded  well 
with  the  dropped  eyes  of  the  king  and  his  sulky 
look,  as  of  a  naughty  child  who  was  being  lectured. 
But  the  name  of  Paris  put  her  beside  herself.  City 
without  faith,  accursed  and  scoffing  city,  bloody 
pavements,  torn  up  perpetually  for  riots  and  barri- 
cades !  What  madness  possessed  them  all,  those 
poor  exiled  kings,  to  take  refuge  in  that  Gomorrah? 
It  is  Paris,  Paris,  with  its  foul  air  reeking  with 
vice  and  gunpowder,  which  has  finished  the  ruin  of 
the  great  races ;  Paris  which  has  torn  from  Chris- 


260  Kings  in  Exile. 

tian  what  the  maddest  of  his  ancestors  had  kept  in 
safety,  respect,  and  pride  for  the  blazon.  Oh  !  from 
that  first  day  of  arrival,  from  that  first  night  of 
exile,  seeing  him  so  gay,  so  excited  while  those 
about  him  wept  in  secret,  Frederica  had  foreseen 
the  humiliations,  the  shame,  that  she  would  have 
to  endure.  .  .  And  now,  in  one  breath,  without  a 
pause,  with  stinging  words  that  marbled  with  red 
the  pallid  face  of  that  royal  libertine,  lashing  it  as 
with  a  whip,  she  recalled  to  him  all  his  deeds, 
his  rapid  gliding  from  pleasure  to  vice,  and  from 
vice  to  crime. 

"You  betrayed  me  before  my  eyes,  in  my 
household  .  .  .  adultery  at  my  table,  touching  my 
very  gown.  .  .  And  when  you  had  had  enough  of 
that  curled  doll,  who  did  not  even  hide  her  tears 
before  me,  you  went  to  the  gutter,  to  the  mud  of 
the  streets,  shamelessly  wallowing  there  in  idleness, 
bringing  back  to  us  your  morrows  of  orgy,  your 
sated  remorse,  the  filth  of  that  mire.  .  .  Remem- 
ber how  I  saw  you,  stumbling,  stammering,  that 
morning  when  for  the  second  time  you  lost  your 
throne.  .  .  What  have  you  not  done  ?  oh !  Holy 
Mother  of  angels !  .  .  what  have  you  not  done  ?  .  . 
you  have  trafficked  with  the  royal  Seal,  you  have 
sold  your  crosses,  your  titles  ..." 

Then,  in  a  lowered  voice  as  if  she  dreaded  lest 
the  silence  and  the  darkness  should  overhear  her : 

"  And  you  stole  .  .  .  you  stole !  .  .  Those  dia- 
monds, those  stones  ...  it  was  you.  .  .  And  I  let 
my  old  Greb  be  suspected  and  sent  away.  .  .  I  was 
forced  to  it  ...  the  theft  was  known,  a  false  crimi- 


Family  Scene.  261 

nal  was  found  lest  the  true  one  be  suspected.  .  . 
For  that  has  been  my  sole  and  constant  thought  — • 
to  maintain  the  king  erect,  intact,  to  accept  all,  all, 
for  that  one  purpose,  even  the  shame  which  to  the 
eyes  of  the  world  soils  me  myself.  I  gave  to 
my  own  soul  a  word  of  command  which  spurred 
me,  which  upheld  me  in  hours  of  trial :  For  the 
Crown !  .  .  And  now  you  wish  to  sell  it,  that 
crown  which  has  cost  me  such  tears,  such  agony ; 
you  mean  to  barter  it  for  gold  to  lavish  on  that 
foul  Jewish  image,  whom  you  had  the  indecency  to 
put  before  me  to-day,  face  to  face.  .  ." 

He  had  listened  without  a  word,  cowed,  his 
head  drawn  in.  The  insult  to  the  woman  he  loved 
roused  him.  Looking  fixedly  at  the  queen,  with 
her  stinging  blows  still  cutting  his  face,  he  said, 
politely  as  ever,  but  very  firmly :  — 

"You  are  mistaken.  .  .  The  woman  of  whom 
you  speak  has  nothing  to  do  with  the  resolution 
I  have  taken.  .  .  What  I  do  is  done  for  you,  for 
me,  for  the  peace  of  all.  .  .  Come,  are  you  not 
yourself  weary  of  this  life  of  expedients,  of  priva- 
tions? .  .  Do  you  think  I  am  ignorant  of  what  is 
going  on  here,  that  I  do  not  suffer  at  seeing  that 
pack  of  tradesmen  and  creditors  at  your  heels  ?  .  . 
The  other  day  when  that  man  was  shouting  in  the 
courtyard,  I  drove  in,  and  heard  him  ...  if  it  had 
not  been  for  Rosen,  I  'd  have  crushed  him  under 
the  wheels  of  my  phaeton.  And  you,  you  were 
watching  for  his  departure  behind  the  curtain  of 
your  chamber.  A  pretty  business  for  a  queen  !  .  . 
We  owe  everybody.  There  is  but  one  cry  against 


262  Kings  in  Exile. 

us.  Half  your  servants  are  unpaid.  .  .  That  tutor, 
it  is  ten  months  since  he  has  had  a  penny.  .  . 
Mme.  de  Silvis  pays  herself  by  wearing  majesti- 
cally your  old  gowns;  and  there  are  days  when 
M.  le  conseiller,  Keeper  of  the  Seals  of  the  Crown, 
borrows  from  my  valet  the  money  to  buy  his 
snuff.  .  .  You  see  I  know  what  is  going  on.  .  . 
But  you  do  not  know  my  debts.  I  am  riddled 
with  them.  .  .  Everything  will  blow  up  soon. 
That  will  be  a  pretty  sight !  You  will  see  it  sold, 
that  crown  of  yours,  with  the  old  silver  forks  and 
spoons  and  knives,  under  a  doorway.  .  ." 

Little  by  little,  carried  away  by  his  satirical 
nature  and  the  scoffing  habits  of  his  set,  he  aban- 
doned the  reserved  tone  of  his  first  words,  and  in 
his  insolent,  nasal  little  voice  he  rattled  off  sar- 
casms, some  of  which  must  have  come  from 
Sephora,  who  never  lost  a  chance  to  demolish 
with  mockery  her  lover's  last  scruples. 

"  You  accuse  me  of  talking  for  effect,  my  dear, 
but  it  is  you  who  bewilder  yourself  with  words. 
What,  after  all,  is  that  crown  of  Illyria  that  you 
are  always  talking  to  me  about?  It  is  worth 
nothing  unless  it  is  on  the  head  of  a  king ;  other- 
wise it  is  a  cumbersome,  useless  article,  which  is 
hidden  in  a  bandbox  when  one  has  to  run  away, 
and  kept  under  a  glass  globe  like  the  laurels 
of  an  actor  or  the  orange-flowers  of  a  porter's 
bride.  .  .  You  ought  to  be  convinced  of  this,  Fre- 
derica.  A  king  is  not  a  king  unless  he  is  on  the 
throne,  power  in  hand ;  fallen,  he  is  less  than 
nothing  —  a  rag.  .  .  It  is  nonsense  to  keep  to 


Family  Scene.  263 

etiquette,  and  titles,  and  put  Majesty  everywhere, 
on  the  panels  of  the  carriages,  on  our  sleeve- 
buttons;  hampering  ourselves  with  a  worn-out 
ceremonial.  It  is  all  hypocrisy  on  our  part, 
and  politeness  and  pity  in  those  who  surround  us, 
both  friends  and  servants.  Here,  in  this  house, 
I  am  Christian  II.  to  you  and  Rosen  and  two 
or  three  faithful.  The  moment  I  am  out  of  it 
I  become  a  man  like  the  rest.  Mr.  Christian 
Second.  .  .  Not  even  a  surname  .  .  .  just  a  given 
name,  Christian,  like  any  strolling  player  at  the 
Gaiete.  .'." 

He  stopped,  out  of  breath ;  it  is  doubtful  if  he 
had  ever  spoken  so  long  standing  up.  .  .  Sharp 
notes  of  the  fern-owl,  hasty  trills  of  the  night- 
ingale pricked  through  the  silence  of  the  night. 
A  great  moth,  which  had  shortened  its  wings 
in  the  candles,  was  knocking  itself  everywhere. 
Nothing  was  heard  within  the  room  but  that 
fluttering  distress  and  the  smothered  sobs  of 
the  queen,  who  knew  well  how  to  hold  her  own 
against  anger  and  violence,  but  whom  sarcasm, 
taking  her  sincere  nature  falsely,  deprived  of 
weapons;  just  as  a  valiant  soldier  expecting 
honest  blows  is  helpless  under  pin-pricks.  See- 
ing her  so  feeble,  Christian  thought  she  was  van- 
quished, and  to  complete  the  work  he  put  a  last 
touch  to  his  burlesque  picture  of  monarchs  in 
exile.  What  a  pitiful  figure  they  cut,  those  poor 
princes  in  partibus,  figurantes  of  royalty,  draped 
in  its  frippery,  and  continuing  to  declaim  before 


264  Kings  in  Exile. 

empty  benches,  and  not  a  penny  of  receipts ! 
Was  n't  it  far  better  to  be  silent  and  come  down 
to  common  life  and  obscurity?  Those  who  had 
money  might  keep  it  up  ;  'twas  a  luxury  like  any 
other,  this  passion  for  grandeurs.  .  .  But  as  for 
others,  their  poor  cousins  of  Palermo,  for  instance, 
piled  into  a  house  too  small  for  them  with  their 
cursed  Italian  cooking  !  always  smelling  of  onions 
whenever  you  went  there.  .  .  Worthy,  oh  yes  !  but 
what  an  existence !  And  they  were  not  the  most 
wretched  either.  .  .  The  other  day  a  Bourbon,  a 
real  Bourbon,  ran  after  an  omnibus.  .  .  "  Full, 
monsieur."  But  still  he  ran.  "  Don't  I  tell  you  it 
is  full,  old  fellow?"  And  he  was  very  angry,  be- 
cause they  did  not  call  him  Monseigneur !  As  if 
it  was  visible  on  his  cravat !  .  .  "  Operetta  kings, 
I  tell  you,  my  dear.  And  it  is  to  get  out  of 
this  ridiculous  situation,  and  to  put  ourselves  in 
safety  under  the  shelter  of  an  assured  and 
dignified  position  that  I  have  decided  to  sign 
this  act.  .  .  And  remark,"  he  added,  suddenly 
revealing  the  tortuous  Slav  brought  up  by  Jesuits, 
"  that  it  is  only  an  expedient,  this  signature.  .  . 
They  simply  return  us  our  property,  and  I  do 
not  consider  myself  in  any  way  bound.  .  .  Who 
knows?  These  millions  may  enable  us  to  recover 
the  throne." 

The  queen  raised  her  head  impetuously,  held 
him  by  the  eye  for  a  minute  till  his  own  blinked, 
and  said,  shrugging  her  shoulders :  — 

"  Do   not  make   yourself  more   vile   than  you 


Family  Scene.  265 

are.  .  .  You  know  well  that  once  signed.  .  .  But 
no  !  The  truth  is  that  strength  is  lacking  to  you. 
You  desert  your  post  of  king  at  the  perilous 
moment,  when  the  new  social  order,  which  wants 
neither  God  nor  master,  pursues  with  hatred  the 
representatives  of  divine  right,  making  heaven 
tremble  above  their  heads  and  the  soil  beneath 
their  feet.  Knife,  bombs,  balls,  all  are  good  .  .  . 
for  treachery,  for  murder.  .  .  In  the  great  pro- 
cessions or  at  fetes  not  one  of  us  but  trembles 
when  a  man  advances  from  the  crowd.  .  .  Every 
petition  hides  a  dagger.  .  .  Leaving  our  palaces, 
which  of  us  can  be  sure  of  returning  to  them?  .  . 
And  this  is  the  moment  that  you  choose,  you,  to 
leave  the  battle !  .  ." 

"Ah!  if  it  were  fighting!"  cried  Christian  II., 
hastily.  .  .  "  But  to  struggle  as  we  do  against 
ridicule,  poverty,  all  the  ordures  of  life,  and 
to  feel  we  get  deeper  and  deeper  into  them 
daily.  .  ." 

A  flame  of  hope  flashed  in  her  eyes. 

"  Truly?    Would  you  fight?  .  .    Then,  listen.  .  ." 

Breathless,  she  unfolded  to  him  in  a  few  brief 
words  an  expedition  which  filysee  and  herself  had 
been  preparing  for  three  months ;  sending  letters 
upon  letters,  speeches,  despatches,  Pere  Alphee 
forever  on  the  road  among  the  villages  and 
mountains  ;  for  this  time  it  was  not  to  the  nobility 
they  addressed  themselves,  but  to  the  people,  the 
muleteers,  the  porters  of  Ragusa,  the  market- 
gardeners  of  the  Breno  and  the  Brazza,  the  men  of 


266  Kings  in  Exile. 

the  Isles,  who  came  to  the  markets  in  their  feluc- 
cas, the  primitive  and  traditional  nation,  ready  to 
rise,  to  die  for  their  king,  but  on  condition  that 
they  should  see  him  at  their  head.  .  .  The  com- 
panies were  formed,  the  word  of  command  already 
circulating,  the  signal  alone  was  awaited.  And  the 
queen,  rushing  her  words  in  a  vigorous  charge 
on  the  feeble  Christian,  felt  a  cruel  shock  as  she 
beheld  him  shake  his  head  with  more  indifference 
than  discouragement.  Perhaps  in  his  heart  he  felt 
provoked  that  all  this  had  been  planned  without 
him.  But  he  did  not  believe  the  project  feasible. 
They  could  never  advance  inland ;  they  must 
hold  the  Isles  and  devastate  a  noble  country  with 
little  or  no  chance  of  succeeding;  'twould  be  the 
Duke  of  Palma  over  again ;  an  effusion  of  useless 
blood. 

"  No,  don't  you  see,  my  dear,  that  the  fanat- 
icism of  your  chaplain  and  the  enthusiasm  of 
that  Gascon  are  misleading  you?  .  .  I  have  my 
reports  just  as  you  have  yours.  .  .  The  truth 
is  that  in  Dalmatia,  as  elsewhere,  monarchy 
has  had  its  day.  .  .  They  have  had  enough 
of  it  down  there.  .  .  They  don't  want  any 
more.  .  ." 

"  Ah !  I  know,  I  know  the  coward  who  wants 
no  more  .  .  ."  said  the  queen. 

Then  she  left  the  room  hastily,  leaving  Christian 
much  astonished  that  the  scene  had  ended  so 
rapidly.  He  crumpled  up  the  deed,  put  it 
hastily  into  his  pocket,  and  was  preparing  to  go 


Family  Scene.  267 

out,  when  Frederica  returned,  accompanied  this 
time  by  the  little  prince. 

Caught  up  from  his  sleep,  and  dressed  in  haste, 
Zara  —  who  had  passed  from  the  hands  of  the 
maid  to  those  of  his  mother  without  a  word  being 
uttered  —  opened  his  great  eyes  beneath  his 
auburn  locks,  but  asked  no  questions,  remembering 
confusedly  in  his  little  head,  still  humming  with 
sleep,  certain  other  wakings  for  hasty  flight  amid 
pallid  faces  and  panting  exclamations.  It  was 
then  that  he  had  taken  a  habit  of  giving  himself 
up,  of  letting  himself  be  led,  provided  his  mother 
called  him  in  her  grave  and  resolute  voice  and  he 
could  feel  the  tender  folding  of  her  arm  about 
him,  and  her  shoulder  all  ready  for  his  infant  weari- 
ness. She  had  said  to  him  :  "  Come  !  "  and  he 
came  with  confidence,  surprised  by  the  calmness 
of  this  night's  waking  compared  with  the  tumult  of 
others,  when  flames  and  the  noises  of  musketry 
and  cannon  surrounded  him. 

He  saw  the  king  standing  up ;  not  the  kind  and 
careless  father  who  sometimes  surprised  him  in 
bed  or  crossed  his  schoolroom  with  a  smile  of 
encouragement,  but  a  man  annoyed  and  angry, 
whose  face  grew  harder  at  their  entrance. 

Frederica,  without  a  word,  led  the  child  to 
Christian's  feet  and  kneeling  down  herself  with  an 
abrupt  motion  she  placed  him  standing  before  her 
and  joined  his  little  fingers  within  her  own  clasped 
hands. 

"  The  king  will   not  listen  to  me,"   she  said ; 


268  Kings  in  Exile. 

"  perhaps  he  may  listen  to  you,  my  Zara.  .  .     Say 
with  me  :  'My  father 

The  timid  voice  repeated  :  "  My  father.  .  ." 

"  My  father,  my  king,  I  conjure  you  ...  do  not 
despoil  your  child;  do  not  take  from  him  the 
crown  he  ought  to  wear  some  day.  .  .  Remember 
that  it  is  not  yours  only;  it  comes  from  afar; 
it  comes  from  God,  who  gave  it,  six  hundred 
years  ago,  to  the  House  of  Illyria.  .  .  God 
wills  that  I  be  king,  my  father.  .  .  It  is  my 
heritage,  mine  own ;  you  have  no  right  to  take  it 
from  me." 

The  little  prince  followed  his  mother's  words, 
with  the  fervent  murmur,  the  imploring  eyes  of 
prayer;  but  Christian  turned  away  his  head; 
shrugging  his  shoulders  and  furious,  though 
always  polite,  he  muttered  a  few  words  between 
his  teeth.  .  .  "  Excitement  .  .  .  improper  scene  .  .  . 
turn  the  child's  head."  Then  he  freed  himself  and 
moved  to  the  door.  With  a  bound  the  queen  was 
on  her  feet ;  she  looked  at  the  table  now  empty 
of  the  parchment,  and,  comprehending  that  the 
infamous  act  was  signed  and  that  he  held  it,  she 
uttered  what  was  truly  a  roar ! 

"  Christian  !  .  ." 

He  continued  his  way. 

She  made  one  step  and  the  gesture  of  gathering 
her  gown  to  pursue  him;  then  she  said,  suddenly: 

"  So  be  it !  " 

He  stopped,  and  saw  her,  erect  before  the  open 
window,  her  foot  upon  the  narrow  stone  cop- 


Family  Scene.  269 

ing,  with  one  arm  bearing  her  son  to  death,  with 
the  other  threatening  the  escaping  coward.  The 
glimmer  of  the  sky  lighted  this  strange  group  from 
without. 

"  To  the  operetta  king,  a  tragic  queen  !  "  she 
said,  grave  and  terrible.  "  If  you  do  not  instantly 
burn  that  which  you  have  just  signed,  with  an  oath 
upon  that  cross  that  you  will  not  sign  again  .  .  . 
your  race  is  ended,  crushed  .  .  .  wife  .  .  .  child  .  .  . 
there,  upon  those  stones.  .  ." 

And  in  her  words,  in  her  beautiful  body  leaning 
to  the  void,  there  was  such  impulse  to  the  spring 
that  the  king,  terrified,  rushed  forward  to  grasp 
her. 

"  Frederica !  .  .  " 

At  his  father's  cry,  at  the  quivering  of  the  arm 
that  bore  him,  the  child  —  now  entirely  outside  the 
window  —  believed  that  all  was  over  and  that  death 
had  come.  He  said  not  a  word,  not  a  plaint,  for 
was  he  not  going  with  his  mother?  But  his  little 
hands  clung  to  the  queen's  neck  tightly,  and  throw- 
ing back  his  head  from  which  those  victim  locks 
streamed  down,  he  closed  his  sweet  eyes  to  the 
horror  of  the  fall. 

Christian  resisted  no  longer  .  .  .  that  courage, 
that  resignation  of  the  child-king,  who  already 
knew  this  much  of  his  royal  business  —  how  to  die 
well !  .  .  The  king's  heart  burst  in  his  bosom. 
He  flung  upon  the  table  the  crumpled  deed  he 
had  been  twisting  in  his  fingers  for  the  last  few 
minutes,  and  fell,  sobbing,  into  a  chair.  Frederica, 


2  70  Kings  in  Exile. 

still  distrustful,  read  through  the  paper  from  the 
first  line  to  the  signature;  then,  putting  it  to  a 
candle,  she  burned  it  to  her  fingers'  ends  and 
scattered  the  black  fragments  on  the  table. 
That  done,  she  carried  away  her  child,  who  was 
beginning  to  drop  asleep  in  his  heroic  attitude 
of  suicide. 


The  Watchers.  271 


XL 

THE  WATCHERS. 

IT  was  the  end  of  an  amicable  meal  in  the 
parlour  of  the  second-hand  establishment  in  the 
Rue  Eginhard.  Old  Leemans  when  he  is  alone 
munches  his  crust  at  the  kitchen  table,  opposite  to 
the  Darnet,  without  cloth  or  napkin ;  but  when  he 
has  company  the  careful  housekeeper  takes  off, 
grumbling,  the  white  covers  to  the  furniture,  hides 
away  the  little  mats  before  the  chairs,  and  sets  the 
table  before  the  portrait  of  "  monsieur,"  in  the 
neat  and  peaceful  salon,  worthy  of  a  priest,  which 
is  for  several  hours  delivered  over  to  smells  of  fry 
and  garlic,  and  to  discussions,  highly  seasoned 
also,  in  the  argot  of  low  money-dealing. 

Ever  since  the  "  Grand  Stroke  "  had  been  pre- 
paring, these  dinners  were  frequent.  It  is  well  for 
all  such  affairs  with  mixed  accounts  to  meet  often 
and  concert  together ;  and  nowhere  could  this  be 
done  so  safely  as  in  the  depths  of  the  little  Rue 
Eginhard,  lost  in  the  past  of  ancient  Paris.  There, 
at  any  rate,  they  could  talk  aloud,  discuss,  and 
plot.  .  .  And  now  the  end  was  near.  In  a  few 
days,  what  am  I  saying?  in  a  few  hours  the  renun- 


272  Kings  in  Exile. 

ciation  would  be  signed  and  the  "  affair "  which 
had  already  swallowed  up  so  much  money  would 
begin  to  be  profitable.  The  certainty  of  success 
illumined  the  eyes  and  voices  of  the  guests  with  a 
sort  of  gilded  gayety,  made  the  table  linen  whiter, 
the  wine  better.  It  was  a  true  wedding-feast,  pre- 
sided over  by  old  Leemans  and  Pichery,  his  in- 
separable, —  a  wooden  head,  stiff  and  pomatumed 
Hungarian  fashion,  above  a  stiff  stock ;  something 
military  but  not  frank,  the  aspect  of  a  cashiered 
officer.  Present  profession :  usurer  in  pictures,  a 
new  and  complicated  trade  well  versed  in  bur  pres- 
ent art  manias  and  adapted  to  them.  When  the 
son  of  a  family  is  high  and  dry,  shorn  and  raked, 
he  goes  to  Pichery,  picture-dealer,  sumptuously 
installed  in  the  Rue  Lafitte. 

"  Have  you  a  Corot,  a  treasure  of  a  Corot?  .  .  I 
am  so  in  love  with  that  painter." 

"  Ah  !  Corot !  .  .  "  says  Pichery,  closing  his  dead 
fish-eyes  with  beatific  admiration ;  then,  changing 
his  tone:  "Yes,  I  have  just  what  you  want  ..." 
and  then,  on  a  great  easel,  rolled  in  front  of  them, 
he  shows  a  pretty  Corot,  a  morning  scene  all 
quivering  with  silvery  mists  and  nymphs  dancing 
beneath  the  willows.  The  spendthrift  dandy  puts 
up  his  monocle  and  pretends  to  admire  it. 

"  Chic  !  .  .  very  chic  !  .  .     How  much?  " 

"  Fifty  thousand  francs,"  says  Pichery  without 
blinking.  The  other  does  not  blink  either. 

"Three  months?  .  ." 

"  Three  months,  with  security." 

The  dandy  gives  his  note  and  carries  away  the 


The   Watchers.  273 

picture  to  his  own  house  or  his  mistress's,  and  for  a 
whole  day  he  allows  himself  the  joy  of  saying  at 
the  club  and  on  the  boulevard  :  "  I  have  just  bought 
a  stunning  Corot."  The  next  day  he  sends  his 
Corot  to  the  auction  rooms  where  Pichery  de- 
spatches old  Leemans  to  buy  it  back  for  ten  or 
twelve  thousand  francs,  its  proper  price.  This  is 
usury  at  exorbitant  interest,  but  legal,  without 
risk.  Pichery  himself  is  not  expected  to  know 
whether  or  not  the  amateur  buys  in  good  faith. 
He  sells  his  Corot  very  dear,  cuir  et poils,  as  they 
say  in  that  pretty  business,  but  he  is  strictly 
within  his  rights,  for  the  value  of  an  art  object  is 
conventional.  Moreover  he  is  very  careful  not  to 
sell  any  but  authentic  merchandise,  passed  upon 
by  old  Leemans,  who,  by  the  way,  has  taught  him 
his  artistic  vocabulary,  very  surprising  in  the 
mouth  of  that  shady  veteran,  who  is  intimate  how- 
ever with  the  young  Gomme  and  the  cocottes  of 
the  Opera  quarter,  both  of  whom  are  very  nec- 
essary to  his  traffic. 

On  the  other  side  of  Patriarch  Leemans,  sat 
Sephora  and  her  husband,  playing  lovers ;  their 
chairs  and  their  glasses  touching  one  another. 
They  had  met  so  seldom  since  the  beginning  of  this 
affair !  J.  Tom  Levis,  who,  for  the  world  at  large, 
was  in  London,  was  really  living  shut  up  in  his 
castellated  abode  at  Courbevoie,  fishing  with  a  line 
all  day  for  want  of  dupes  to  bait,  and  much  occu- 
pied in  worrying  the  Sprichts  with  his  tomfoolery. 
S6phora,  more  restrained  than  a  Spanish  queen, 
awaiting  the  king  at  any  hour,  and  always  cere- 

18 


274  Kings  in  Exile. 

monious  and  under  arms,  was  forced  to  lead  the 
life  of  an  upper-class  demi-mondaine ;  a  life  so 
empty  and  so  little  amusing  that  such  ladies  nearly 
always  live  in  couples  in  order  to  endure  their  long, 
weary  drives  and  heart-breaking  leisure.  But  the 
Comtesse  de  Spalato  had  no  double  in  all  the  town. 
She  could  not  visit  courtesans,  nor  the  other 
dfrlass/es  of  the  questionable  world  ;  honest  women 
would  not  receive  her;  and  Christian  II.  would 
not  have  tolerated  around  her  that  whirl  of  idlers 
who  fill  the  salons  frequented  by  men  only.  Con- 
sequently, she  was  absolutely  alone  in  her  boudoirs 
with  their  painted  ceilings,  and  their  mirrors  gar- 
landed with  cupids  and  roses,  but  reflecting  nought 
except  her  indolent  image,  bored  by  the  king's 
insipid  incense,  burned  at  her  feet  like  those  head- 
ache perfumes  that  smoke  in  a  golden  cup.  Ah ! 
she  would  give  quickly  enough  that  melancholy 
princely  life  for  the  little  cellar  salon  in  the  Rue 
Royale,  with  her  mountebank  before  her  executing 
his  jig  of  the  Grand  Stroke !  Scarcely  could  she 
even  write  to  him  to  keep  him  informed  of  what 
was  going  on. 

Consequently,  how  happy  she  is  to-night ;  how 
she  snuggles  to  Tom,  excites  him,  stirs  him  up. 
"  Come,  make  me  laugh."  And  Tom  bestirs  him- 
self, but  his  liveliness  is  not  quite  frank,  and  it 
drops  after  each  outburst  into  a  troublesome 
thought  which  he  does  not  utter,  and  about  which 
I  will  give  you  a  thousand  guesses.  .  . 

Tom  Levis  is  jealous.  He  knows  that  there  can 
be  nothing  as  yet  between  Christian  and  S6phora ; 


The  Watchers.  275 

that  she  is  much  too  clever  to  give  herself  without 
proper  security;  but  the  psychologic  moment  is 
approaching;  that  paper  once  signed,  the  agree- 
ment must  be  kept;  and  i'  faith,  my  friend  Tom 
felt  troubles,  uneasinesses,  that  were  very  strange 
in  a  man  devoid  of  all  superstitions  and  childish 
notions.  Little  feverish,  terrified,  cold  chills  ran 
over  him  as  he  looked  at  his  wife,  who  had  never 
seemed  to  him  so  pretty  as  she  did  now  in  her 
toilet  elegance  and  the  title  of  countess,  which 
seemed  to  polish  her  features,  brighten  her  eyes, 
and  raise  her  hair  beneath  a  coronet  with  pearls 
upon  its  spikes.  Evidently  J.  Tom  Levis  is  not  up  to 
the  level  of  his  part ;  he  has  not  the  solid  shoulders 
of  his  trade.  A  mere  nothing  would  decide  him 
to  take  back  his  wife  and  let  everything  go.  But  a 
sort  of  shame  restrains  him,  the  fear  of  ridicule ; 
and  then,  such  sums  of  money  spent  on  the  affair. 
The  unfortunate  fellow  argued  the  matter  with  him- 
self and  was  torn  by  these  various  scruples,  which 
the  countess  would  never  have  supposed  him  capa- 
ble of  feeling.  He  affected  great  gayety,  gesticu- 
lating with  the  dagger  in  his  heart,  enlivening  the 
company  with  a  choice  relation  of  his  Agency 
tricks,  and  ended  by  so  exhilarating  old  Leemans 
and  the  glacial  Pichery  himself  that  they  pulled 
their  choicest  tricks  from  their  bags  and  told  their 
best  hoaxes  on  amateurs. 

They  get  to  that  point,  don't  they,  —  these  part- 
ners, these  cronies,  their  elbows  on  the  table? 
Yes,  they  told  all;  the  underside  of  auctions; 
their  trap-doors  and  pitfalls ;  the  coalition  of  big 


276  Kings  in  Exile. 

dealers,  rivals  apparently ;  their  dodges ;  their 
traffic  with  porters,  that  mysterious  free-masonry 
which  puts  a  real  barrier  of  greasy  collars  and 
ragged  coats  between  a  rare  object  and  the  caprice 
of  a  purchaser,  and  forces  the  latter  at  last  to  a 
folly  at  some  great  price.  It  was  a  tournament 
of  cynical  tales,  a  joust  to  the  cleverest,  the  most 
rascally  sharper. 

"  Did  I  ever  tell  you  that  about  my  Egyptian 
lantern  and  Mora?"  asked  Pere  Leemans,  sipping 
his  coffee.  Then  he  told  for  the  hundredth  time 
— -  as  an  old  soldier  tells  of  his  favourite  campaign 
—  the  tale  of  the  lantern  which  a  distressed  Levan- 
tine had  let  him  have  for  two  thousand  francs, 
and  which  he  resold  the  same  day  to  the  president 
of  the  council  for  forty  thousand,  with  a  double 
commission,  five  hundred  from  the  Levantine  and 
five  thousand  from  the  duke.  But  what  made 
the  charm  of  the  tale  was  the  account  given  of  the 
sly  twists  and  turns,  the  shrewd  art  of  exciting  and 
leading  on  a  rich  and  conceited  customer.  "  Yes, 
no  doubt,  a  fine  thing,  but  dear,  too  dear.  .  .  I 
advise  you,  Monsieur  le  due,  to  let  some  one  else 
commit  that  folly.  .  .  I  am  pretty  sure  the  Sis- 
mondos.  .  .  Ah  !  yes,  yes,  a  pretty  bit  of  work  .  .  . 
this  framework  of  little  bars  .  .  .  that  embossed 
chain  .  .  ."  And  the  old  fellow,  stimulated  by  the 
laughter  that  shook  the  table,  fingered  a  shabby 
little  note-book  worn  at  the  edges  that  lay  on  the 
table-cloth,  and  from  which  his  memory  refreshed 
itself  now  and  then  as  to  a  date,  a  figure,  an  ad- 
dress. All  the  famous  amateurs  were  classed  and 


The   Watchers. 


77 


noted  in  that  book,  like  the  marriageable  girls 
with  large  dots  on  the  grand  livre  of  M.  de.  Foy, 
with  their  peculiarities,  their  hobbies,  their  com- 
plexions brown  or  fair;  those  who  must  be  bul- 
lied ;  those  who  only  value  an  object  if  it  costs 
very  dear;  the  sceptical  amateur;  the  artless 
amateur,  to  whom  you  can  say  when  you  sell  him  a 
fraud  :  "  You  know  .  .  .  don't  let  any  one  get  that 
away  from  you."  To  old  Leemans  personally  the 
note-book  was  worth  a  fortune. 

"  Look  here,  Tom,"  said  S^phora,  who  wanted 
to  make  her  husband  shine,  "  suppose  you  tell  them 
tJiat  about  your  arrival  in  Paris  .  .  .  you  know,  your 
first  affair,  Rue  Soufflot." 

Tom  did  not  need  to  be  urged ;  he  poured  him- 
self out  a  little  brandy  to  strengthen  his  voice,  and 
related  how,  about  a  dozen  years  before,  returning 
from  London,  cleaned  out  and  shabby,  with  his  last 
five  francs  in  his  pocket,  he  heard  from  an  old 
comrade,  whom  he  met  in  an  English  tavern  near 
the  station,  that  the  Agencies  were  just  then 
engaged  in  a  big  affair,  the  marriage  of  Mile. 
Beaugars,  daughter  of  a  contractor,  who  had  twelve 
millions  of  dot  and  had  taken  it  into  her  head  to 
marry  a  great  seigneur,  a  real  one.  A  magnificent 
commission  was  offered,  and  the  hounds  were 
numerous.  Tom  was  not  hindered  by  that.  He 
went  to  a  reading-room  and  turned  over  all  the 
genealogical  books  of  France,  the  Gotha  and 
Bottin,  and  finally  discovered  an  ancient,  a  very 
ancient  family  ramifying  into  all  that  were  most 
celebrated,  and  living  at  that  time  in  the  Rue 


278  Kings  in  Exile. 

Soufflot.  The  incongruity  between  the  title  and 
the  name  of  the  street  informed  him  plainly  of 
either  a  downfall  or  a  vice.  "  On  what  floor  does 
M.  le  Marquis  de  X  live?  "  He  sacrificed  his  last 
bit  of  silver  and  obtained  from  the  concierge  a  few 
scraps  of  information.  .  .  Great  nobility  indeed  .  .  . 
widower,  son  just  leaving  Saint-Cyr  and  a  daughter 
of  eighteen,  very  well  brought-up.  .  .  "  Rent  two 
thousand  francs,  including  gas,  water,  and  carpet," 
added  the  concierge,  for  whom  that  last  detail  in- 
creased the  dignity  of  his  lodger.  .  .  "  Exactly 
what  I  want,"  thought  Tom  ;  and  he  went  up,  rather 
dashed,  it  must  be  said,  by  the  respectable  air  of  the 
staircase,  statue  at  the  bottom,  arm-chairs  at  each 
landing,  the  luxury  of  a  modern  house,  not  much 
in  keeping  with  his  threadbare  coat,  his  boots  that 
let  in  water,  and  his  very  delicate  errand. 

"  Part  way  up,"  related  the  agent,  "  I  had  half  a 
mind  to  go  down  again.  Then,  F  faith,  I  thought 
it  plucky  to  risk  the  stroke.  I  said  to  myself: 
'  You  have  wits,  and  cheek,  and  your  living  to 
make  .  .  .  honour  to  intellect !  .  .'  And  up  I  went, 
four  steps  at  a  time.  They  ushered  me  into  a  great 
salon,  of  which  I  soon  made  the  inventory.  Two 
or  three  fine  antiquities,  pompous  relics,  a  portrait 
by  Largilliere,  much  poverty  underneath,  sofa 
rickety,  chairs  without  horsehair,  chimney  as  cold 
as  its  marble  mantelpiece.  Enter  the  master  of  the 
house;  majestic  old  man,  very  chic,  Samson  in 
'  Mademoiselle  de  la  Seigliere.'  '  You  have  a  son, 
Monsieur  le  marquis?'  At  the  first  words  Samson 
rose,  indignant;  I  uttered  the  sum  .  .  .  twelve  mil- 


The   Watchers.  2  79 

lions  .  .  .  that  made  him  sit  down  again,  and  we 
talked.  .  .  He  began  by  owning  that  he  had  not  a 
fortune  equal  to  his  name,  twenty  thousand  francs 
a  year  at  the  most,  and  that  he  would  not  be  sorry 
to  regild  his  blazon.  The  son  would  have  one 
hundred  thousand  francs  for  a  portion.  '  Oh ! 
Monsieur  le  marquis,  the  name  suffices.  .  .'  Then 
we  settled  the  amount  of  my  commission,  and  I  got 
away,  in  a  great  hurry,  being  wanted  at  my  place 
of  business.  .  .  Place  of  business,  indeed!  when  I 
did  n't  know  where  to  sleep.  .  .  But  at  the  door 
the  old  gentleman  stopped  me,  and  said,  in  a  kindly 
way :  '  Look  here,  you  seem  to  me  a  lively  fel- 
low. .  .  I  have  a  mind  to  propose  to  you.  .  .  You 
might  marry  my  daughter  also.  .  .  She  has  n't  a 
dot.  For  to  tell  you  the  truth,  I  exaggerated  just 
now  about  the  twenty  thousand  francs  a  year. 
There  's  not  the  half.  .  .  But  I  can  dispose  of  the 
title  of  a  Roman  count  for  my  son-in-law  .  .  .  and 
what  is  more,  if  he  is  in  the  army,  my  relationship 
to  the  minister  of  war  will  secure  him  advance- 
ment.' I  took  notes :  '  Rely  upon  me,  M.  le 
marquis,'  and  I  was  going  out  ...  A  hand  was 
laid  flat  upon  my  shoulder.  .  .  I  turned  round. 
Samson  looked  at  me,  and  laughed,  with  such  a 
droll  air.  .  .  '  And  then,  there  's  myself,'  he  said.  .  . 
'What,  M.  le  marquis?'  'Yes,  I'm  not  too  far 
gone,  and  if  I  found  an  opportunity  .  .  .'  He  ended 
by  admitting  that  he  was  rotten  with  debts,  and  not 
a  penny  to  pay  them.  '  Pardieu,  my  dear  Mon- 
sieur Tom/  he  said,  '  if  you  could  ferret  out  for  me 
some  good  business-woman  with  serious  savings, 


2  So  Kings  in  Exile. 

old  maid  or  widow,  send  her  this  way  with  her 
purse  ...  I  '11  make  her  a  marquise.'  When  I  left 
that  house  my  education  was  complete.  I  under- 
stood the  whole  of  what  there  was  to  do  in 
Parisian  society;  the  Levis  Agency  was  morally 
founded.  .  .  " 

This  tale  was  marvellous  as  narrated,  or  rather 
as  acted  by  Tom  Levis.  He  rose,  sat  down,  imi- 
tated the  majesty  of  the  old  noble  quickly  degen- 
erating into  the  cynicism  of  bohemia,  and  his  way 
of  spreading  his  handkerchief  between  his  knees 
when  he  wanted  to  cross  his  legs,  and  the  three 
corrections  as  to  the  nothingness  of  his  actual 
resources.  One  might  have  thought  it  a  scene 
from  the  "  Neveu  de  Rameau,"  but  Rameau's 
nephew  in  the  nineteenth  century,  without  powder, 
without  grace,  without  violin,  and  with  something 
hard,  ferocious,  the  fierceness  of  an  English  bull- 
dog in  the  satirical  intonation  of  the  former  sub- 
urban blackguard.  The  others  laughed  and  were 
mightily  amused,  deducing  from  Tom's  narrative 
reflections  philosophical  and  cynical. 

"  Don't  you  see,  my  children,"  said  old  Leemans, 
"  that  if  we  second-hand  brokers  combined  together 
we  should  be  masters  of  the  world?  .  .  People 
traffic  with  everything  in  these  days,  and  every- 
thing passes  through  our  hands,  leaving  a  bit  of 
its  skin  behind  it.  .  .  When  I  think  of  all  the 
business  that  has  been  done  for  the  last  forty  years 
in  this  hole  of  the  Rue  Iiginhard,  all  that  I  have 
sold,  vamped-up,  exchanged !  I  lacked  nothing 
but  a  crown  to  sell ;  and  here  it  is  ...  in  the  bag." 


The   Watchers.  281 

He  rose,  glass  in  hand,  his  eyes  brilliant  and 
ferocious. 

V 

"  A  la  Brocante,  mes  enfants  !  " 

At  the  lower  end  of  the  room  la  Darnet,  on  the 
watch  behind  her  black  peasant's-cap,  heard  all 
and  learned  much  about  the  business,  in  which 
she  hoped  to  establish  herself  at  "  monsieur's " 
death,  and  sell  on  her  own  account. 

Suddenly  the  little  bell  at  the  entrance  door 
rang  violently  in  a  strangled  way,  like  an  old 
catarrh.  They  all  quivered.  Who  could  be  com- 
ing at  such  an  hour? 

"  It  must  be  Lebeau,"  said  old  Leemans.  "  None 
but  he  would  .  .  ." 

Loud  shouts  welcomed  the  valet,  whom  they  had 
not  seen  for  some  time,  and  who  now  made  his 
entrance,  pale,  haggard,  his  teeth  clenched,  utterly 
prostrate  in  manner  and  out  of  temper. 

"  Sit  down,  my  old  rascal,"  said  Leemans,  mak- 
ing room  between  himself  and  his  daughter. 

"  The  devil ! "  said  the  other,  looking  round 
upon  their  jovial  faces,  the  table  and  the  remains 
of  the  feast.  "  You  seem  to  be  amusing  yourselves 
here.  .  ." 

At  that  observation  and  the  funereal  tone  in 
which  it  was  made,  they  looked  at  one  another, 
rather  uneasy.  .  .  Parblcu  !  yes,  they  were  amus- 
ing themselves,  they  were  gay.  Why  should  they 
be  'sad  ? 

1  No  English  word  for  brocante,  nor  any  term  that  gives  an  idea 
of  it :  brokerage  in  old  things,  from  clothes  to  rare  pictures,  fur- 
niture, and  bric-a-brac. 


282  Kings  in  Exile. 

M.  Lebeau  seemed  stupefied. 

"What!..  You  don't  know?..  When  did 
you  see  the  king,  countess?" 

"  Why,  this  morning  .  .  .  yesterday  .  .  .  every 
day." 

"  And  he  told  you  nothing  of  the  terrible 
quarrel?  .  ." 

In  two  words  he  related  the  scene  with  the 
queen,  the  burned  deed,  their  whole  affair  burned 
up  with  it,  apparently. 

"  Ah  !  the  sneak  !  "  cried  Sephora.  "  I  'm  sold  !  " 

Tom,  very  uneasy,  looked  his  wife  in  the  eye. 
Could  she,  by  chance,  have  had  a  moment  of  impru- 
dent weakness  ?  .  .  But  milady  was  in  no  humour 
to  explain  herself,  being  full  of  her  rage  and  indig- 
nation against  Christian,  who,  for  more  than  a 
week  had  been  floundering  in  a  series  of  lies  to 
explain  to  her  how  it  was  that  the  deed  of  renun- 
ciation was  not  yet  signed.  .  .  Oh !  the  coward, 
the  base  coward  and  liar !  .  .  But  why  had  not 
Lebeau  warned  them  earlier? 

"  Ah  !  yes,  why  indeed?  "  said  the  valet,  with  his 
hideous  smile.  .  .  "I  should  have  had  fine  trouble 
to  do  that.  .  .  For  the  last  ten  days  I  've  roamed 
the  highways.  .  .  Five  hundred  leagues  without 
taking  breath,  without  halting.  .  .  Not  even  the 
chance  to  write  a  letter,  watched  as  I  was  by  a 
cursed  monk,  a  Franciscan  Father  who  smells  like 
a  wild  beast  and  twirls  his  knife  like  a  bandit.  .  . 
He  watched  my  every  movement;  never  let  me 
out  of  his  sight  one  second,  under  pretence  that  he 
did  not  know  enough  French  to  make  himself 


The   Watchers.  283 

understood.  .  .  The  truth  is,  they  distrust  me  at 
Saint-Mande,  and  they  have  'taken  advantage  of 
my  absence  to  get  a  great  affair  under  way. 

"  What  affair?  "  asked  all  their  eyes. 

"  Something,  I  think,  about  an  expedition  to 
Dalmatia.  .  .  It  is  that  devil  of  a  Gascon  who  has 
turned  their  heads.  .  .  Oh  !  I  said  from  the  first 
we  ought  to  get  rid  of  that  fellow.  .  ." 

But  in  vain  did  they  try  to  hide  things  from 
him ;  he,  the  valet,  had  scented  preparations  in  the 
air  for  some  time  past ;  letters  departing  at  all 
hours  ;  mysterious  consultations.  One  day,  open- 
ing a  water-colour  album  which  that  little  fool  of 
a  Rosen  had  left  about,  he  had  seen  designs  for 
uniforms,  costumes  drawn  by  her  :  "  Illyrian  volun- 
teers, dragoons  of  the  Faith,  blue  shirts,  cuirassiers 
of  the  true  Right."  Another  day  he  had  overheard 
the  princess  and  Mme.  de  Silvis  in  a  grave  dis- 
cussion concerning  the  shape  and  size  of  the  cock- 
ades. From  all  of  which,  and  from  scraps  of 
remarks  gathered  here  and  there,  he  suspected  a 
great  expedition;  and  the  journey  he  had  just 
made  was  probably  concerning  it.  The  little  dark 
man,  a  sort  of  hunchback,  whom  they  had  gone 
to  find  among  the  mountains  of  Navarre,  must  be 
some  great  general  charged  with  leading  the  army 
under  the  orders  of  the  king. 

"  What !  the  king  going  too  !  .  ."  cried  old  Lee- 
mans,  casting  a  contemptuous  look  at  his  daughter. 

A  tumult  of  words  followed  the  old  man's 
exclamation. 

"  And  our  money  ?  " 


284  Kings  in  Exile. 

"And  the  notes?" 

"  'T  is  an  infamy !  " 

"  A  theft !  " 

And  as,  in  these  days,  politics,  like  ^Esop's  dish 
is  served  up  everywhere,  Pichery,  who  is  an  im- 
perialist, apostrophized  the  Republic  stiff  in  his 
horse-hair  stock :  — 

"  Never  under  the  Empire  would  such  a  thing 
have  been  allowed  !  —  to  endanger  the  tranquillity 
of  a  neighbouring  State  !  .  ." 

"  It  is  very  certain,"  said  Tom,  gravely,  "  that  if 
it  were  known  to  our  authorities  they  would  never 
permit  it.  .  .  They  ought  to  be  warned,  stirred 
up.  .  ." 

"  Yes,  I  have  thought  of  that,"  replied  Lebeau. 
"  Unluckily,  I  don't  know  anything  positive,  pre- 
cise. They  would  not  listen  to  me.  Besides,  our 
people  are  very  distrustful  ...  all  their  precautions 
are  taken  to  mislead  suspicions.  .  .  This  very 
evening,  the  queen's  birthday,  there  is  a  great  fete 
at  the  hotel  de  Rosen.  .  .  What  good  would  it 
do  to  tell  the  authorities  that  those  dancers  are 
conspiring  and  preparing  for  battles?  .  .  And  yet 
there  certainly  is  something  out  of  the  common 
going  on  at  that  ball.  .  ." 

Then  for  the  first  time  it  was  noticed  that  the 
valet  was  in  evening  dress,  thin  shoes,  white  cravat ; 
yes,  he  is  in  charge  of  the  buffets,  and  he  must  get 
back  as  fast  as  he  can  to  the  lie  Saint-Louis. 
Suddenly  Sephora,  who  had  been  reflecting  for  a 
few  moments,  said  :  — 

"  Listen,  Lebeau  ...  if  the  king  starts,  you  will 


The  Watchers.  285 

know  it,  will  you  not?  .  .  They  will  tell  you,  if 
only  to  pack  his  trunks.  .  .  Well,  if  I  am  warned 
only  one  hour  in  advance  I  swear  to  you  the 
expedition  shall  not  take  place." 

She  said  this  in  her  tranquil  voice  with  slow  but 
firm  decision.  And  while  Tom  Levis  was  asking 
himself  by  what  means  his  wife  could  prevent  the 
king  from  starting,  and  the  other  conspirators,  much 
dejected,  were  calculating  what  the  non-success  of 
the  grand  stroke  would  cost  them,  Maitre  Lebeau, 
returning  to  the  ball,  hurries  along  on  the  tips  of  his 
pumps  through  a  labyrinth  of  dark  little  streets,  old 
roofs,  old  balconies,  scutcheoned  portals,  through 
all  that  aristocratic  quarter  of  the  last  century  now 
turned  into  workshops  and  manufactories,  which, 
shaken  by  day  with  the  rolling  of  heavy  carts  and 
the  swarming  of  a  poor  population,  resumes  at 
night  its  character  of  a  strange  dead  city. 

The  fete  was  seen  and  heard  afar,  —  a  summer 
fete,  a  midnight  fete,  sending  along  the  two  banks 
of  the  river  its  scattered  echoes  and  its  lights  in  a 
ruddy  mist  of  flame  from  the  extremity  of  the 
Island,  which  looks,  as  it  projects  into  the  flowing 
water,  like  the  high  and  rounded  poop  of  some 
gigantic  vessel  riding  at  anchor.  Come  nearer; 
tall  and  brilliantly  lighted  windows  can  be  distin- 
guished ;  a  thousand  coloured  fires  in  glass  globes 
are  fastened  among  the  copses,  to  the  single  trees 
of  the  garden ;  and  along  the  Quay  d'Anjou, 
usually  asleep  at  that  hour,  the  lanterns  of  the 
waiting  carriages  are  making  holes  in  the  darkness 


286  Kings  in  Exile. 

with  their  motionless  little  lights.  Since  Herbert's 
marriage  the  hotel  Rosen  had  seen  no  fete  like 
this ;  in  fact,  the  present  one  was  finer,  more  vast, 
more  crowded,  with  all  its  doors  and  windows  open 
to  the  splendour  of  a  starlit  night. 

The  ground-floor  apartments  formed  one  long 
gallery  of  salons,  lofty  as  a  cathedral,  decorated 
with  paintings,  ancient  gilding,  Dutch  or  Venetian 
lustres  lighting  a  strange  decoration,  hangings 
shimmering  with  gold  reflections  upon  green  or 
red,  heavy  shrines  of  massive  silver,  ivories,  framed 
in  a  medley,  old  mirrors  with  blackened  quick- 
silver, reliquaries,  banners,  treasures  of  Monte- 
negro and  Herzegovina,  which  Parisian  taste  had 
known  how  to  group  and  to  display,  with  nothing 
discordant,  nothing  too  exotic  about  them.  The 
orchestra,  stationed  in  the  gallery  of  an  ancient 
oratory  recalling  that  of  Chenonceaux,  was  sur- 
rounded with  oriflammes,  which  sheltered  also  the 
chairs  of  the  king  and  queen.  In  contrast  to  all 
this  past,  to  these  rich  reflections  from  antiquity 
which  would  put  old  Leemans  beside  himself,  came 
the  waltzes  of  the  day,  languorous  or  whirling ; 
the  waltzers  with  long  embroidered  trains,  with 
fixed  and  brilliant  eyes  in  a  mist  of  flurry  hair, 
passing  like  a  defiance  of  abounding  youth;  fair 
young  visions,  slender,  floating,  and  brunette  ap- 
paritions of  a  moist  white  pallor.  From  time  to 
time,  from  this  tangle  of  dancers  moving  in  a 
circle,  from  this  medley  of  silken  stuffs  which 
added  to  the  music  a  sound  of  coquettish  and 
mysterious  rippling,  couples  would  detach  them- 


The   Watchers.  287 

selves  and  waltz  through  the  tall  glass  door,  receiv- 
ing on  their  heads,  inclined  in  opposite  directions, 
the  white  reflections  of  the  illuminated  frontal 
where  the  queen's  monogram  was  glittering,  and 
continue  through  the  garden  paths  the  rhythm  of 
their  dance,  with  some  hesitation  and  little  pauses 
caused  by  the  distance  of  the  music,  making  the 
waltz  at  last  a  cadenced  march,  a  tuneful  prome- 
nade, skirting  the  balmy  groups  of  roses  and  mag- 
nolias. In  short,  apart  from  the  rarity  and  the 
curiosity  of  the  decorations  and  the  presence  of  a 
few  types  of  foreign  women  with  the  tawny  hair 
and  the  languid  suppleness  of  their  Slav  nature, 
there  was  nothing  here,  at  first  sight,  but  one  cf 
those  fashionable  kermesses  such  as  the  Fau- 
bourg Saint-Germain  (represented  at  the  hotel 
Rosen  by  its  most  ancient  and  imposing  names) 
was  in  the  habit  of  giving  in  its  old  gardens  of  the 
Rue  de  1'Universite,  where  the  dancers  often 
passed  from  the  waxed  floors  to  the  lawns,  the 
black  coats  being  suffered  to  redeem  themselves 
with  light-coloured  trousers, — summer  fetes  in  the 
open  air,  freer  and  more  exuberant  than  others. 

From  his  bedroom  on  the  second  floor  the  old 
duke,  crippled  for  the  last  week  by  an  acute  attack 
of  sciatica,  listened  to  the  echoes  of  his  ball,  smoth- 
ering beneath  the  bedclothes  his  moans  of  pain, 
and  his  barrack-room  maledictions  on  the  ironical 
cruelty  of  the  disease  which  nailed  him  to  his  bed 
on  such  a  day,  making  it  impossible  that  he 
should  himself  join  that  band  of  noble  youth  which 
was  destined  to  start  on  the  morrow. 


288  Kings  in  Exile. 

The  decree  had  gone  forth,  the  posts  for  the 
struggle  chosen,  and  this  ball  was  a  farewell,  a  sort 
of  defiance  to  war's  mischances,  and,  at  the  same 
time,  a  protection  against  the  suspicions  of  the 
French  police.  Though  the  duke  could  not  ac- 
company the  volunteers,  he  consoled  himself  with 
the  thought  that  his  son  Herbert  would  take  part 
in  the  affair,  and  his  money  too,  for  their  Majes- 
ties had  kindly  permitted  him  to  assume  all  the 
costs  of  the  expedition.  On  his  bed,  mingled 
with  maps  for  the  staff  and  strategic  plans,  lay 
bills  for  the  outfit:  such  as  cases  of  muskets, 
shoes,  blankets,  victuals ;  all  of  which  he  carefully 
verified,  with  a  terrible  bristling  of  his  moustache 
—  heroic  grimace  of  the  royalist  striving  to  get 
the  better  of  his  parsimonious  instincts.  Now 
and  then,  he  lacked  a  figure  or  a  fact,  and  then  he 
sent  for  Herbert,  —  a  pretext  to  keep  for  a  few 
moments  near  him,  there  under  his  curtains,  the  tall 
son  who  was  to  leave  him  on  the  morrow  for  the 
first  time,  whom  he  might  never  see  again  perhaps, 
and  for  whom  he  felt  an  infinite  tenderness,  ill- 
concealed  by  his  stiff  manner  and  majestic  silences. 
But  the  prince  when  he  came  would  not  stay  long, 
being  in  haste  to  do  the  honours  of  the  house,  and, 
above  all,  unwilling  to  lose  a  moment  of  the  short 
hours  he  had  still  to  spend  with  his  dear  Colette. 

Standing  with  him  in  the  first  salon,  she  helped 
him  to  receive  his  father's  guests ;  looking  prettier 
and  more  dainty  than  ever  in  her  narrow  tunic  of 
old  lace,  made  of  the  alb  of  a  Greek  bishop,  the 
dull  white  reflections  of  which  set  off  her  fragile 


The  Watchers.  289 

beauty,  that  wore  an  impress  of  almost  solemn 
mystery  on  this  last  evening.  It  gave  repose  to 
her  features,  it  darkened  the  blue  of  her  eyes,  the 
same  blue  as  that  pretty  little  cockade  fluttering 
among  her  curls  beneath  a  diamond  aigrette.  .  . 
Hush !  the  cockade  of  an  Illyrian  volunteer,  the 
model  designed  by  herself  and  adopted  by  the 
expedition.  .  .  Ah  !  for  three  months  she  had  not 
been  idle,  the  pretty  little  thing  !  Copying  procla- 
mations, carrying  them  secretly  to  the  convent  of 
the  Franciscans,  designing  costumes,  banners,  foil- 
ing the  police  whom  she  always  believed  were  at 
her  heels ;  it  was  thus  she  played  her  part  as  a 
royalist  great  lady,  inspired  by  her  former  studies 
at  the  Sacre-Cceur.  One  only  detail  was  lacking  to 
her  programme  of  Vendean  guerilla  warfare ;  she 
could  not  go,  she  could  not  follow  her  Herbert. 
For  now  it  was  Herbert,  Herbert  only ;  by  some 
blessing  of  nature,  the  other  was  no  more  thought 
of  than  the  poor  ouistiti  so  cruelly  crushed  and 
mangled  on  the  pavement  of  the  quay.  This  de- 
light of  sporting  a  man's  costume  and  of  putting  her 
feet  into  stout  little  boots  was  denied  to  Colette  for 
two  reasons :  one,  her  service  near  the  queen ;  the 
other,  very  private,  whispered  only  the  night  before 
into  Herbert's  ear.  Yes,  if  she  were  not  mistaken, 
after  a  lapse  of  time  easy  to  calculate  by  taking 
the  day  of  the  session  of  the  Academy  as  the  point 
of  departure,  the  race  of  Rosen  would  be  blessed 
with  one  representative  the  more ;  and  it  was  quite 
impossible  to  expose  a  hope  so  dear,  so  precious, 
to  the  fatigues  of  an  expedition  which  could  not 

19 


290  Kings  in  Exile. 

terminate  without  some  rough  and  bloody  thrusts ; 
quite  as  impossible  as  it  was  to  accept  an  invitation 
for  a  waltz  in  those  splendid  salons.  What  secrets 
the  little  woman  was  now  obliged  to  keep ;  and  in 
spite  of  her  mysterious  lips,  her  eyes,  adorably  tell- 
tale, and  the  languid  way  in  which  she  hung  on 
Herbert's  arm  had  a  fancy  to  tell  all. 

Suddenly  the  music  was  hushed,  the  dancers 
stopped  ;  every  one  stood  up  to  await  the  entrance 
of  Christian  and  Frederica.  They  crossed  the 
three  salons  resplendent  in  national  treasures, 
where  the  queen  could  see  her  monogram  em- 
broidered everywhere  in  flowers,  lights,  and  jewels ; 
where  all  things  spoke  to  them  of  their  country,  of 
its  glories ;  and  now  they  stood  upon  the  threshold 
of  the  garden.  .  .  Never  was  monarchy  represented 
in  a  loftier  and  more  brilliant  fashion ;  a  perfect 
couple  to  engrave  upon  the  coins  of  a  people,  on 
the  frontal  of  a  dynasty.  The  queen,  especially, 
was  admirable ;  younger  by  ten  years  in  a  splendid 
white  attire,  and  on  her  neck,  for  all  jewels,  a  heavy 
amber  collar  from  which  hung  a  cross.  Given  and 
blessed  by  the  Pope,  this  collar  has  its  legend,  which 
the  faithful  relate  to  one  another  in  whispers.  Fre- 
derica wore  it  during  the  whole  period  of  the  siege 
of  Ragusa,  where  it  was  twice  lost  in  the  sorties, 
and  twice  miraculously  recovered  under  fire  of  the 
battle.  She  attaches  a  sort  of  superstition  to  it, 
fastens  a  queen's  vow  upon  it,  without  one  thought 
of  the  charming  effect  of  its  gold  pearls  close  be- 
side the  golden  hair  of  which  they  seem,  as  it  were, 
to  scatter  the  reflections. 


The    Watchers.  291 

While  the  sovereigns  stood  there,  radiant,  admir- 
ing the  fete  and  the  garden  and  its  fairy  illumina- 
tion, suddenly  three  strokes  of  a  bow,  fantastic, 
rasping,  energetic,  were  given  from  the  middle  of 
a  clump  of  rhododendrons.  Every  Slav  in  the 
assembly  quivered,  recognizing  the  notes  of  guzlas, 
whose  long-stemmed  mandolins  could  be  seen  amid 
the  dark-green  foliage.  The  notes  began  with  a 
humming  prelude,  an  overflowing  of  distant  and 
sonorous  waves,  advancing,  rising,  increasing,  shed- 
ding themselves  around.  'Twas  like  a  heavy  cloud, 
charged  with  electricity,  from  which,  now  and 
again,  a  sharper  bow  struck  lightnings,  whence 
there  presently  gushed  forth,  stormy  and  voluptu- 
ous, the  heroic  rhythm  of  the  national  air,  hymn 
and  dance  in  one,  that  air  of  RodoTtza  which  "  down 
there  "  takes  part  in  all  the  fetes  and  all  the  battles, 
presenting  finely  the  double  character  of  its  antique 
legend :  —  The  soldier  Rodoi'tza,  fallen  into  the 
hands  of  the  Turks,  pretends  death  to  escape  them. 
They  light  a  fire  on  his  breast;  the  soldier  does 
not  flinch.  They  slip  a  snake,  roused  by  the  sun, 
into  his  bosom ;  they  drive  a  score  of  nails  beneath 
his  nails :  he  maintains  his  stony  stillness.  Then, 
they  bring  to  him  Hafkouna,  the  tallest  and  love- 
liest of  the  daughters  of  Zara,  who  dances  as  she 
sings  to  him  the  air  of  Illyria.  At  the  first  notes, 
as  Rodo'ftza  heard  the  tinkle  of  the  sequins  of  her 
necklet,  the  quiver  of  the  fringes  of  her  belt,  he 
smiled,  his  eyes  opened  and  he  would  have  been 
lost,  if  the  dancer  in  a  whirling  step  had  not  flung 
upon  his  face  the  silken  scarf  with  which  she  timed 


292  Kings  in  Exile. 

and  crowned  her  dance.  Thus  was  the  soldier 
saved,  and  this  is  why  for  two  hundred  years  the 
national  air  of  Illyria  is  called  the  "  air  of  Rodoi'tza." 

Hearing  it  ring  now  beneath  the  sky  of  exile, 
all  the  Illyrians,  men  and  women,  turned  pale. 
This  call  of  the  guzlas,  which  the  orchestra  at 
the  farther  end  of  the  salon  accompanies  in 
undertones,  like  a  murmHr  of  waves  above  which 
rises  the  cry  of  the  stormy  petrel,  this  is  the  cry  of 
the  nation  itself,  swollen  with  memories,  with  tears, 
regrets,  and  hopes  inexpressible.  The  huge  bows, 
heavy,  shaped  like  the  bows  of  archers,  did  not 
vibrate  upon  common  strings,  but  on  nerves 
strained  to  the  breaking  point,  on  fibres  delicately 
resonant.  These  young  men,  bold  and  proud,  of 
martial  cut,  felt  within  them,  all,  the  indomitable 
courage  of  Rodoi'tza,  so  well  repaid  by  woman's 
love ;  and  these  beautiful  Dalmatians,  tall  as  Hai'- 
kouna,  have  in  their  hearts  her  tenderness  for 
heroes.  And  the  old  men,  thinking  of  their  dis- 
tant country,  the  mothers  looking  at  their  sons, 
crave  all  to  sob,  all,  all  —  were  it  not  for  the  pres- 
ence of  the  king  and  queen  —  uniting  their  voices 
to  the  strident  cry  which  the  guzla  players,  their 
playing  ended,  fling  to  the  stars  in  a  last  rushing 
firework  of  chords. 

Immediately  after,  the  dances  were  resumed,  with 
a  spring,  a  dash,  surprising  in  a  society  where 
we  may  amuse  ourselves  only  in  conventional 
ways.  Certainly  there  was,  as  Lebeau  had  said, 
something  in  this  fete  that  was  out  of  the  common, 
something  ardent,  feverish,  passionate,  which  was 


The  Watchers.  293 

felt  in  the  clasp  of  the  arms  around  the  waists,  in 
the  spring  of  the  dancers,  in  certain  glittering 
looks  that  crossed  each  other,  even  in  the 
cadence  of  the  waltzes,  the  mazurkas,  which  rang 
at  times  with  the  clanking  of  swords  and  spurs. 
Toward  the  end  of  balls,  when  morning  pales  the 
windows,  the  last  hour  of  pleasure  has  a  hurried 
ardour,  a  tired  intoxication.  But  on  this  occasion 
the  ball  had  hardly  begun  before  the  hands  of  all 
were  burning  in  their  gloves,  hearts  were  beating 
beneath  the  corsage  bouquets  or  the  diamond 
orders,  and  as  each  couple  passed,  lost  in  a 
cadenced  love,  eyes  rested  long  and  tenderly 
upon  them,  smiling.  All  present  knew  that  those 
handsome  youths,  the  nobles  of  Illyria  exiled  with 
their  princes,  and  the  nobles  of  France  ever  ready 
to  give  their  blood  to  the  good  cause,  were  to  start 
at  dawn  of  day  on  a  bold  and  perilous  expedition. 
Even  in  case  of  victory,  how  many  would  return  of 
those  high-spirited  young  men  who  now  enrolled 
themselves  without  a  count  of  cost?  How  many, 
within  a  week,  would  bite  the  earth,  lying  on 
mountain  slopes,  the  sound  of  that  mazurka  still 
humming  in  their  ears  to  the  beat  of  their  ebbing 
life-blood?  T  was  the  nearness  of  danger,  min- 
gling with  the  joy  of  a  ball  the  anxiety  of  a  night- 
watch,  that  made  those  young  eyes  glitter  with 
tears  and  flashes,  audacity  and  surrender,  —  for 
what  could  be  denied  to  him  who  goes,  who  goes 
to  death,  it  may  be?  That  death  which  hovered 
in  the  air,  whose  wing  swept  round  them  in  the 
cadence  of  the  violins,  how  it  tightened  the  em- 


294  Kings  in  Exile. 

brace,  and  hastened  the  avowal !  Fugitive  loves  ! 
meeting  of  ephemera  in  a  single  ray  of  sunshine  ! 
They  had  hardly  seen  each  other,  they  might  never 
meet  again,  but  here  were  two  hearts  chained. 
Some,  the  more  haughty  of  the  women,  tried  to 
smile  in  spite  of  their  emotion ;  but  what  gentle- 
ness beneath  that  pride !  And  all  this  as  they 
danced  with  heads  thrown  back  and  locks  floating, 
each  couple  fancying  themselves  alone,  hid,  lost  in 
the  twining  magic  whirl  of  a  waltz  of  Brahms  or  a 
mazurka  of  Chopin. 

One  was  there,  vibrating  too,  and  deeply  moved. 
It  was  Meraut,  in  whom  the  notes  of  the  guzlas, 
soft  and  savagely  energetic  in  turn,  had  awakened 
the  adventurous,  bohemian  spirit  which  lies  at  the 
bottom  of  all  the  sun-temperaments,  with  a  mad 
desire  to  rush  afar  through  unknown  paths  to  the 
Light,  to  adventure,  to  battle,  to  do  some  bold 
and  valiant  action  for  which  women  would  admire 
him.  Meraut,  who  did  not  dance,  who  had  never 
fought,  the  intoxication  of  this  ball  of  heroism 
attained  him ;  and  to  think  that  all  this  youth  was 
departing,  to  give  its  blood,  to  do  great  deeds  and 
dangerous  emprises,  while  he  remained  behind 
with  old  men,  children !  To  think  that,  having 
organized  the  enterprise,  he  must  leave  it  to  be 
carried  on  without  him !  All  this  was  sadness, 
hardship  inexpressible.  The  idea,  the  ideal,  was 
put  to  shame  before  action  !  It  may  be  that  this 
wringing  of  the  heart,  this  desire  to  die,  poured 
into  him  by  the  songs  and  the  Slavic  dances,  was 
not  disconnected  with  the  radiant  pride  of  Fre- 


The   Watchers.  295 

derica  on  the  arm  of  Christian  II.  How  happy  he 
felt  her  to  be  in  beholding,  at  last,  the  king,  the 
warrior  in  her  husband  !  .  .  Hai'kouna,  Hai'kouna, 
in  the  clash  of  arms  thou  canst  all  forget  and  all 
forgive,  -—  betrayal,  lies  :  what  thou  lovest  above  all 
things  is  personal  valour ;  on  that  thy  handkerchief, 
\varm  with  thy  tears,  with  the  faint  fragrance  of 
thy  face,  is  cast.  .  .  And  while  he  thus  bemoaned 
himself,  Hai'kouna,  who  saw,  in  the  corner  of  the 
salon,  that  broad  poetic  brow  where  the  thick 
rebellious  locks,  so  little  in  the  fashion,  massed 
themselves,  Hai'kouna  smiled,  and  made  him  a  sign 
to  come  to  her.  It  seemed  as  though  she  had 
divined  the  reason  of  his  sadness. 

"  What  a  beautiful  fete,  Monsieur  Meraut !  " 

Then,  lowering  her  voice :  — 

"  I  owe  this,  too,  to  you.  .  .  But  we  owe  you  so 
much  ...  we  know  not  how  to  thank  you." 

It  was  he,  indeed,  whose  robust  faith  had 
breathed  upon  the  dying  flames,  given  hope  to 
despair,  and  prepared  the  rising  which  on  the 
morrow  was  to  turn  to  action.  The  queen  did 
not  forget  him,  she ;  there  was  not  a  person  in 
that  illustrious  assembly  to  whom  she  would 
have  spoken  with  that  deferent  kindness,  that 
glance  of  gratitude  and  sweetness,  there,  before 
them  all,  in  the  midst  of  the  respectful  circle 
ranged  around  the  sovereigns.  But  Christian  II. 
turned  towards  him,  again  taking  Frederica's  arm. 

"  The  Marquis  de  Hezeta  is  here,"  he  said  to 
Elysee.  "Have  you  seen  him?" 

"  I  do  not  know  him,  Sire.  .  ." 


296  Kings  in  Exile. 

"  But  Re  says  that  you  and  he  are  old  friends.  .  . 
See,  there  he  is." 

The  Marquis  de  Hezeta  was  the  leader  who,  in 
the  absence  of  old  General  Rosen,  was  to  com- 
mand the  expedition.  In  the  last  attempt  of  the 
Duke  of  Palma  he  had  shown  astonishing  qualities 
as  a  corps  commander,  and  never,  had  he  been 
listened  to,  would  the  affair  have  ended  as  it  did. 
When  he  saw  his  efforts  wasted,  and  the  Pre- 
tender himself  giving  the  signal  and  the  example 
of  flight,  the  cabecilla,  seized  with  lassitude  and  mis- 
anthropy, flung  himself  into  the  Basque  mountains, 
and  lived  there,  safe  from  childish  conspiracies, 
false  hopes,  sword-thrusts  into  water,  which  ex- 
hausted his  moral  forces.  He  wished  to  die  ob- 
scurely in  his  own  country,  but  was  now  once  more 
tempted  forth  to  adventure  by  the  seductive  roy- 
alism  of  Pere  Alphee  and  the  renown  for  bravery 
of  Christian  II.  The  ancient  nobility  of  the  parti- 
san, his  romantic  life  of  exile,  persecution,  grand 
and  dashing  strokes,  and  fanatical  cruelty,  all  this 
surrounded  the  Marquis  Don  Jose  Maria  de 
Hezeta  with  an  almost  legendary  interest,  and 
made  him  now  the  personage  of  the  ball. 

"  Good-evening,  lily  .  .  ."  he  said,  coming  up  to 
Elysee  with  extended  hand,  and  calling  him  by  his 
child's  name  in  the  old  days  of  the  Enclos  de 
Rey.  .  .  "  Yes,  yes,  it  is  I  ...  your  old  master  .  .  . 
Monsieur  Papel." 

The  black  coat,  laden  with  crosses  and  orders, 
the  white  cravat  had  not  changed  him,  nor  yet  the 
additional  score  of  years  that  lay  upon  that  huge 


The   Watchers.  297 

dwarfs-head,  so  swarthy  with  powder  and  the  tan 
of  the  mountain  air  that  his  frontal  vein,  terrible 
and  characteristic,  was  scarcely  seen.  With  its 
disappearance  his  royalist  infatuation  seemed  atten- 
uated, as  if  the  cabecilla  had  left  in  his  Basque 
beretta,  which  he  flung  into  a  torrent  at  the  end  of 
his  last  campaign,  a  part  of  his  old  beliefs,  his  early 
illusions. 

Elysee  was  strangely  surprised  to  hear  the  talk 
of  his  old  master,  of  the  man  who  had  made  him 
what  he  was. 

"  You  see,  my  little  E"ly  .  .  ." 

The  little  fily  was  two  feet  taller  than  himself, 
and  not  lacking  in  gray  hairs. 

"...  it  is  all  .over,  there  are  no  kings  now.  .  . 
The  principle  is  alive,  but  the  men  are  wanting. 
Not  one  of  these  unhorsed  ones  is  capable  of  get- 
ting back  into  the  saddle  .  .  .  and  not  one  of  them 
really  wishes  to.  .  .  Ha  !  what  I  Ve  seen,  what  I  Ve 
seen,  during  this  last  war  !  .  ." 

A  bloody  mist  seemed  to  cross  his  brow  and 
inject  his  eyes,  fixed  and  as  if  enlarged  by  a  vision 
of  shame,  cowardice,  treachery.  .  . 

"  But  all  kings  are  not  alike,"  protested  Me'raut, 
"  and  I  am  sure  that  Christian  .  .  ." 

"  Yours  is  worth  no  more  than  ours.  .  .  A  child, 
a  mere  enjoyer.  .  .  Not  an  idea,  no  will  in  those 
eyes  of  pleasure.  .  .  Look  at  him  now !  " 

He  pointed  to  the  king,  who  was  waltzing  past 
them,  his  eyes  vague,  his  forehead  moist,  his 
small  head  bending  to  the  bared  shoulder  of  his 
partner,  inhaling  it  with  his  open  mouth  as  if  he 


298  Kings  in  Exile. 

would  fain  have  rolled  there.  In  the  rising  intoxi- 
cation of  the  ball,  the  pair  passed  on,  touching  them 
with  their  panting  breaths  but  without  seeing  them ; 
and  as  the  company  crowded  into  the  gallery  to 
see  Christian  II.,  the  finest  waltzer  in  his  kingdom, 
dance,  Hezeta  and  Meraut  took  refuge  in  the  deep 
embrasure  of  an  open  window  looking  on  the  Quai 
d'Anjou.  They  stayed  there  a  long  time,  half 
within  the  whirl  and  tumult  of  the  ball  and  half  in 
the  cool  fresh  shadow,  the  stilling  silence  of  the 
night. 

"  Kings  believe  no  longer  .  .  .  they  will  no 
longer.  Why  should  we  strive  for  them?"  said 
the  Spaniard,  with  a  sullen  air. 

"  You  believe  in  them  no  longer.  ,  .  And  yet 
you  go  to-morrow?" 

"  Yes,  I  go." 

"Without  hope?" 

"  One  only.  .  .  That  of  getting  my  head  broke ; 
my  poor  head,  which  I  know  not  where  to  lay." 

"And  the  king?" 

"  Oh  !    as  for  him,  I  am  easy  enough.  .  ." 

Did  he  mean  to  say  that  Christian  II.  was  not 
yet  gone,  or  that,  like  his  cousin  the  Duke  of 
Palma,  he  would  always  know  how  to  get  safely 
back  from  a  battle  ?  Hezeta  did  not  explain  him- 
self further. 

Around  them  the  ball  continued  its  giddy  whirl, 
but  lilysee  saw  it  now  through  the  discouraged 
eyes  of  his  old  master  and  his  own  disillusions. 
He  felt  an  immense  pity  for  that  valiant  youth 
which  so  gayly  was  preparing  to  fight  beneath 


T/te   Watchers.  299 

leaders  whose  faith  was  gone ;  already  the  fete,  its 
scene  confused,  its  lights  veiled,  disappeared  to  his 
eyes  in  the  smoke  of  a  battlefield,  in  a  great  melee 
of  disaster,  from  which  the  unknown  dead  were 
gathered  up.  For  an  instant,  in  order  to  shake  off 
that  threatening  vision,  he  leaned  upon  the  window- 
sill  above  the  deserted  quay,  on  which  the  palace 
shed  great  squares  of  light  that  reached  beyond  it 
to  the  Seine.  And  the  water  to  which  he  listened, 
always  tossing  and  tumultuous  at  this  angle  of  the 
Isle,  mingled  the  noises  of  its  current  and  its 
furious  dash  against  the  arches  of  the  bridge  with 
the  sighs  of  the  violins  and  the  rasping  plaints  of 
the  guzlas,  leaping  in  short  gasps  like  the  sobs  of 
a  heart  oppressed  or  spreading  itself  in  weltering  - 
waves  like  the  blood  of  an  open  wound. 


3oo  Kings  in  Exile. 


XII. 

THE    NIGHT-TRAIN. 

"  WE  leave  to-night,  eleven  o'clock,  Lyons  Sta- 
tion. Destination  unknown.  Probably  Cette,  Nice, 
or  Marseilles.  Take  warning." 

When  this  note,  hastily  scratched  off  by  Lebeau, 
reached  the  Avenue  de  Messine,  the  Comtesse  de 
Spalato  had  just  left  her  bath,  all  fresh,  fragrant, 
and  supple,  and  was  moving  about  her  boudoir, 
watering  and  taking  care  of  her  flowers  and  her 
green  plants,  gloved  to  the  elbows  in  Swedish  kid 
for  this  excursion  through  the  artificial  garden. 
She  showed  no  emotion,  but  stopped  a  moment  to 
reflect  in  the  calm  half-light  of  the  closed  blinds ; 
then  she  made  a  little  resolute  gesture  and  shrugged 
her  shoulders  as  if  to  say :  "  Bah  !  who  wants  the 
end  must  take  the  means.  .  ."  After  which  she 
rang  for  her  maid,  to  be  put  under  arms  to  receive 
the  king. 

"  What  will  madame  put  on?  " 
"  Nothing.  .  .     I  shall  stay  as  I  am.  .  ." 
And  certainly  nothing  could  be  more  becoming 
to  her  than  that  long  garment  of  pale  blue  flannel, 
in  soft,  clinging  folds,  a  great  fichu  tied,  childlike, 
behind    her   waist,    and    her   black    hair,    twisted, 
curled  and  raised  very  high,  showing  the  nape  of 


The  Night-Train.  301 

the  neck,  and  the  starting  line  of  the  shoulders, 
which  could  easily  be  imagined  of  a  brighter  tone 
than  the  face,  the  brightness  of  warm  and  polished 
amber. 

She  thought,  with  reason,  that  no  formal  toilet 
could  equal  this  dishabille,  which  enhanced  the 
simple,  girlish  air  the  king  so  delighted  in ;  but 
this  decision  obliged  her  to  breakfast  in  her 
chamber,  for  she  could  not,  of  course,  go  down- 
stairs in  such  attire.  She  had  organized  her 
household  on  a  grave  and  serious  footing  ;  there 
was  nothing  here  of  the  fantastic  and  bohemian 
allurements  of  Courbevoie.  After  breakfast  she 
installed  herself  in  her  boudoir,  from  which  a  wide 
veranda  projected  over  the  avenue,  and  there, 
peacefully  seated  and  rosy  in  the  reflection  of  the 
window  shades,  she  watched  for  the  king.  Chris- 
tian never  came  before  two  o'clock ;  but  from  that 
hour  an  altogether  novel  emotion  began  in  her 
placid  nature,  namely :  expectant  waiting  —  at  first 
quivering  slightly  like  a  ripple  in  the  water,  then 
agitated,  feverish,  humming.  Carriages  were  rare 
at  that  hour  on  the  tranquil  avenue,  now  bathed  in 
sunshine  between  its  double  rows  of  plane-trees 
and  new  hotels,  ending  in  the  gilded  railings  and 
lamp-posts  of  the  Pare  Monceaux.  At  the  faintest 
roll  of  wheels  Sephora  drew  aside  the  blind  to  see 
who  was  coming,  and  her  expectation,  each  time 
balked,  was  irritated  by  that  exterior  quietude, 
that  rural  calmness. 

What  had  happened  ?  Would  he  really  go  with- 
04ut  seeing  her? 


302  Kings  in  Exile. 

She  sought  for  reasons,  pretexts ;  but  when  we 
are  waiting,  all  else  waits ;  the  whole  being  remains 
in  suspense,  and  ideas,  floating,  disconnected,  are 
'no  more  completed  than  words  that  are  stammered 
by  the  lips.  Sephora  felt  this  torture,  this  swoon- 
ing, in  the  tips  of  her  fingers  where  all  nerves 
reach  and  quiver.  Again  she  raised  the  rose- 
coloured  linen  of  the  shade.  A  warm  breeze 
stirred  the  branches  like  green  feathers,  a  cool 
breath  rose  from  the  roadway,  which  the  water- 
carts  were  bathing  in  spasmodic  jets,  stopped  for 
the  passing  of  carriages,  now  more  numerous,  on 
their  way  at  five  in  the  afternoon  to  the  Bois.  By 
this  time  she  was  seriously  afraid  that  the  king  had 
abandoned  her,  and  she  hastily  despatched  two 
letters  to  him,  one  addressed  to  the  house  of 
Prince  d'Axel,  the  other  to  the  club.  Then  she 
dressed,  not  being  able  with  propriety  to  remain 
till  evening  as  a  young  girl  fresh  from  her  bath ; 
after  which  she  wandered,  first  from  her  chamber 
to  her  boudoir  and  her  dressing-room,  and  finally 
over  all  the  house,  striving  to  allay  her  expecta- 
tion by  restless  motion. 

It  was  not  a  little  cocotte's  cage  that  la  Spalato 
had  purchased,  nor  one  of  those  stupendous  houses 
with  which  a  thousand  contractors  have  encum- 
bered the  new  quarters  of  western  Paris,  but  an  artis- 
tic mansion,  worthy  of  the  names  of  its  surrounding 
streets :  Murillo,  Velasquez,  Van  Dyck ;  a  house 
distinguished  from  all  its  neighbours,  from  the 
pediment  of  its  frontal  to  the  knocker  on  its  door. 
Built  by  Count  Ponicki  for  his  mistress,  an  ugly 


The  Night-Train.  303 

woman,  whom  he  paid  every  morning  with  a  thou- 
sand-franc note  folded  in  four  and  laid  upon  the 
marble  of  her  toilet-table,  this  marvellous  dwelling 
had  been  sold  hap-hazard,  with  all  its  art-furniture, 
for  two  millions  on  the  death  of  the  rich  Polish 
nobleman,  who  left  no  will,  and  Sephora  had  ob- 
tained at  one  stroke  these  treasures. 

By  the  solid  carved  wooden  staircase,  capable 
of  bearing  the  weight  of  a  carriage  and  four,  which 
gave  to  the  serious  beauty  of  its  present  mistress 
the  sombre  background  of  a  Dutch  picture,  the 
Comtesse  de  Spalato  descended  to  her  three  salons 
on  the  ground-floor:  the  Dresden  salon,  a  small 
room  all  Louis  XV.,  containing  a  ravishing  collec- 
tion of  vases,  statuettes,  enamels,  in  that  fragile  art 
of  the  eighteenth  century  which  seems  to  have 
been  moulded  by  the  rosy  fingers  of  favourites 
and  animated  by  the  roguery  of  their  smile.  Next 
was  the  salon  of  the  ivories,  where,  in  glass  cases 
lined  with  flame-colour  were  Chinese  ivories  in  a 
medley  of  little  personages,  trees  with  fruits  of 
precious  stones,  fishes  with  jade  eyes,  and  certain 
other  ivories  of  the  middle  ages,  dolorous  and  im- 
passioned in  expression,  on  which  the  blood  in  red 
wax  of  the  crucifixes  made  stains  as  on  the  pallor 
of  human  flesh.  The  third  room,  lighted  from 
above,  and  hung  in  Cordova  leather,  was  awaiting 
the  time  when  Pere  Leemans  should  complete  its 
furnishing.  Usually  the  soul  of  the  daughter  of  the 
"  brocante  "  exulted  amid  these  lovely  things  em- 
bellished by  the  bargain  she  had  made  of  them ; 
but  to-day  she  comes  and  goes  without  looking, 


304  Kings  in  Exile. 

without  seeing,  her  thought  afar,  lost  in  irritating 
arguments.  .  .  What !  would  he  really  go  in  this 
way?  .  .  Then  he  did  not  love  her !  .  .  And  she 
had  felt  so  sure  that  he  was  captured,  netted !  .  . 

The  servant  whom  she  had  despatched  with  her 
letters  returned.  No  news  of  the  king.  He  had 
not  been  seen  anywhere.  .  .  Ah !  that  was  Chris- 
tian indeed !  .  .  Knowing  himself  weak,  he  was 
fleeing,  hiding,  escaping  her.  .  .  A  rush  of  furious 
anger  swept  for  an  instant  from  her  natural  calm- 
ness the  woman  who  possessed  herself  so  well. 
She  would  have  torn,  broken,  everything  about 
her  were  it  not  for  her  long  habit  of  sale,  which 
put  a  ticket  of  the  price,  as  one  might  say,  visibly 
on  every  object.  Flinging  herself  at  last  into  an 
arm-chair  as  the  twilight  deepened  on  her  treasures, 
she  saw  them  fleeing,  disappearing  in  the  dusk 
together  with  her  dream  of  a  colossal  fortune* 
The  door  opened  violently. 

"  Madame  la  Comtesse  is  served." 

She  was  forced  to  sit  down  to  table  alone,  in  the 
majestic  dining-room,  adorned  on  its  eight  panels 
with  grand  portraits  by  Franz  Hals,  valued  at  eight 
hundred  thousand  francs,  —  stern,  strong  faces,  stiff 
and  solemn  in  their  ruffs,  but  less  solemn  than  the 
white-cravatted  butler  who  is  carving  on  a  side- 
table  the  dishes  which  a  pair  of  impassible  flunkeys 
dressed  in  nankeen  are  to  serve  to  their  mistress. 
The  irony  of  this  pompous  attendance,  contrasting 
with  the  desertion  that  threatened  her,  made  her 
heart  wince  with  vexation ;  one  might  almost  have 
thought  that  the  kitchen  department  suspected  her 


The  Night-Train.  305 

trouble,  so  stiffly  did  the  footmen  enforce  their  cere- 
monious disdain  as  she  ate,  and  waited  till  she  had 
finished,  motionless  and  grave  as  a  photographer's 
assistant  who  has  fixed  a  client  before  the  lens. 

Little  by  little,  however,  the  abandoned  one  re- 
turned to  her  true  self,  and  recovered  her  nerve.  .  . 
No !  she  would  not  allow  herself  to  be  cast  off  in 
this  way.  .  .  It  was  not  that  she  cared  for  the 
king,  but  the  affair,  the  grand  stroke,  all  her  self- 
loves  at  stake  before  the  eyes  of  her  associates.  .  . 
Come  !  her  plan  is  made.  .  .  Going  up  to  her 
room  she  wrote  a  line  to  Tom ;  then,  while  the 
servants  were  dining  and  gossiping  in  the  lower 
regions  about  the  solitary  and  restless  day  of  their 
mistress,  Madame  la  comtesse,  with  her  little  hands, 
that  were  far  from  awkward,  packed  a  valise  which 
had  often  made  its  trip  from  Courbevoie  to  the 
Agency,  threw  around  her  shoulders  a  gray 
woollen  cloak  for  the  chilly  night,  and  furtively 
left  her  palace  on  foot,  going  straight  to  a  stand 
of  street  carriages,  valise  in  hand,  like  a  lady- 
companion  who  has  just  received  her  pay. 

Christian  II.,  on  his  side,  had  passed  his  day  not 
less  uneasily.  Remaining  late  at  the  ball  with  the 
queen,  he  woke  in  the  morning  with  head  and 
heart  both  full  of  those  heroic  strains  of  faeguzlas. 
Preparations  for  his  journey,  arms  to  examine, 
also  that  uniform  of  lieutenant-general,  not  worn 
since  the  days  of  Ragusa,  —  all  this  kept  him  busy 
till  eleven  o'clock,  surrounded  and  watched  by 
Lebeau,  much  perplexed,  and  not  daring  to  push 
too  far  his  insinuating  questions.  At  eleven  o'clock 
20 


306  Kings  in  Exile. 

the  little  Court  assembled  around  a  low  mass  said 
by  Pere  Alphee  in  the  salon,  transformed  into  an 
oratory,  the  mantelpiece  serving  as  altar,  its  velvet 
lambrequin  covered  by  an  embroidered  cloth. 
The  Rosens  were  not  present,  the  old  man  being 
in  his  bed,  and  the  princess  having  gone  to  the 
station  with  Herbert,  who  had  already  started  with 
a  party  of  young  men.  Hezeta  was  to  leave  by 
the  following  train,  —  the  little  band  scattering  itself 
thus  along  the  day  to  cause  no  suspicion.  This 
secret  mass,  which  recalled  the  times  of  trouble, 
the  exultant  head  of  the  monk,  the  military  energy 
of  his  gesture  and  his  voice,  made  the  very  air 
itself  seem  full  of  incense  and  of  gunpowder,  and 
the  religious  ceremony  the  more  solemn  through 
the  sense  of  a  coming  battle. 

The  breakfast  was  oppressed  by  these  mingled 
emotions,  though  the  king  put  a  certain  coquetry 
into  leaving  behind  him  none  but  agreeable  memo- 
ries ;  affecting  towards  the  queen  a  tenderly  re- 
spectful attitude,  the  affectionateness  of  which  was 
dashed  by  the  rather  distrustful  coldness  of  Fre- 
derica.  The  eyes  of  the  child  watched  them  timidly, 
for  the  horrible  scene  of  the  other  night  haunted 
his  young  memory,  leaving  nervous  intuitions  within 
it  beyond  his  years.  The  Marquise  de  Silvis  was 
exhaling  in  advance  heavy  sighs  of  farewell.  As 
for  Elysee,  to  whose  breast  confidence  had  re- 
turned, he  could  scarcely  contain  his  joy,  as  he 
thought  of  this  counter-revolution  of  the  People 
of  which  he  had  dreamed  so  long,  this  popular 
uprising  to  force  the  doors  of  a  palace  and  restore 


The  Night-Train.  307 

a  king.  To  his  mind,  success  was  not  doubtful. 
Christian  had  by  no  means  the  same  certainty; 
but  beyond  this  trifling  discomfort  of  departure  — 
when  it  seems  as  though  solitude  were  suddenly 
made  by  the  receding  of  objects  or  beings  who 
have  hitherto  surrounded  us  — •  beyond  this  feeling 
he  had  no  unpleasant  apprehension,  but  rather  a 
relief  in  escaping  from  a  false  position,  threatened 
as  he  was  by  notes  falling  due  and  debts  of  honour. 
In  case  of  victory,  the  civil-list  would  settle  all. 
Defeat  would  bring  with  it,  on  the  contrary,  a 
general  and  total  ruin  .  .  .  death,  a  ball  in  the  fore- 
head, straight  between  the  eyes.  .  .  He  thought 
of  that  as  a  final  solution  to  all  his  troubles  of 
money  and  of  heart.  So  thinking,  his  indifference 
made  no  bad  figure  between  the  queen's  absorbed 
reflections  and  Elysee's  enthusiasm.  But  as  the 
three  were  talking  together  in  the  garden  a  groom 
went  by. 

"  Tell  Samy  to  put  the  horses  in,"  ordered 
Christian.  Frederica  shuddered. 

"  Are  you  going  out?  "  she  said. 

"  Yes,  for  prudence'  sake.  .  .  The  ball  last  night 
will  make  all  Paris  talk.  .  .  I  ought  to  show  my- 
self ...  let  people  see  me,  on  the  boulevard,  at  the 
club.  .  .  Oh  !  I  '11  return  to  dine  with  you." 

He  sprang  up  the  portico  at  a  bound,  joyous  and 
free  as  a  boy  out  of  school. 

"  I  shall  fear  to  the  very  end  !  "  said  the  queen ; 
and  Meraut,  doubtful  like  herself,  could  say  no 
word  to  encourage  her. 

The  king,  however,  had  really  made  strong  reso- 


308  Kings  in  Exile. 

lutions.  During  the  mass  he  had  sworn  not  to  see 
Sephora,  knowing  well  that  if  she  tried  to  retain 
him,  if  she  wound  her  arms  about  his  neck,  he 
would  not  have  strength  to  leave  her.  In  all  sin- 
cerity, therefore,  he  went  to  his  club,  where  he  found 
a  few  bald-heads  absorbed  in  silent  whist,  or  in 
majestic  slumber  around  the  tables  in  the  reading- 
room.  The  place  was  all  the  more  lifeless  and 
deserted  because  they  had  played  very  high  the 
night  before.  In  the  early  morning,  as  the  party  of 
players  left  the  club,  Prince  d'Axel  at  their  head, 
it  appeared  that  they  met  a  troop  of  she-asses 
ambling  past  the  door,  their  bells  jingling  .  .  .  and 
Monseigneur  and  the  rest  called  to  the  donkey- 
boy.  .  .  They  drank  warm  milk  in  champagne- 
glasses,  and  then  these  gentlemen,  all  rather  high, 
jumped  astride  of  the  poor  little  beasts,  in  spite  of 
their  kicks  and  the  cries  of  the  boy,  and  they  ran 
the  most  amusing  steeple-chase  ever  seen,  the 
whole  length  of  the  Rue  de  la  Paix !  .  .  It  was 
worth  hearing,  this  majestically  excited  account  of 
M.  Bonceil,  steward  of  the  Grand-Club :  "  Ah !  it 
was  so  droll !  .  .  Monseigneur  on  that  little  don- 
key, obliged  to  curl  up  his  long  legs  —  for  Mon- 
seigneur is  admirably  made  in  the  legs.  .  .  And 
that  imperturbable  phlegm  of  his  !  .  .  Ah !  if  his 
Majesty  had  only  been  there !  .  ." 

His  Majesty  sincerely  regretted  having  missed 
that  fine  show  of  fools.  .  .  Lucky  Prince  d'Axel ! 
At  open  quarrel  with  the  king,  his  uncle,  turned 
out  of  his  own  country  for  all  sorts  of  Court 
intrigues,  he  may  never  come  to  the  throne,  be- 


The  Night-Train.  309 

cause  the  old  monarch  now  talks  of  remarrying 
with  a  young  woman  and  begetting  a  crowd  of  little 
presumptives.  But  all  that  does  not  disturb  him 
the  least  in  the  world.  To  "  make  fete  "  in  Paris 
seems  to  him  far  more  interesting  than  to  make 
politics  "  down  there ".  .  .  Little  by  little,  the 
spirit  of  blague,  of  sceptical  satire,  returned  to 
Christian  as  he  lay  extended  on  the  divan,  where 
the  prince-royal  had  left  the  effluence  of  his  con- 
tagious laxity.  In  the  aimless  atmosphere  of  the 
club,  everything  —  the  heroic  ardour  of  the  night 
before,  the  great  attempt  of  the  morrow  —  seemed 
to  the  young  king  worthless,  without  glory,  with- 
out magic,  without  grandeur.  Positively,  as  one 
might  say,  he  decomposed  as  he  lay  there ;  and  to 
escape  the  torpor  which  was  overcoming  him  like 
a  stupefying  poison  in  all  his  veins,  he  rose,  and 
went  out  into  the  open  air  of  living,  active,  circu- 
lating humanity. 

Three  o'clock.  The  hour  at  which  he  usually 
turned  in  the  direction  of  the  Avenue  de  Messine, 
after  breakfasting  at  the  club,  or  at  Mignon's. 
Mechanically  his  steps  took  their  habitual  way 
through  this  summer  Paris,  always  a  little  larger 
and  a  little  less  heady  than  the  winter  Paris,  but 
offering  charming  aspects,  prolonged  vistas  with 
its  verdure  massed  against  stonework,  and  the 
shadows  of  its  foliage  on  the  whiteness  of  the 
asphalt. 

What  pretty  women  were  gliding  there  half- 
screened  by  sunshades,  with  a  grace,  a  seductive 
charm,  a  sweet  good-humour  !  What  other  women 


310  Kings  in  Exile. 

could  walk  as  these  did,  or  drape  themselves  with 
motion,  or  talk,  or  dress,  or  do  the  opposite,  like 
them  ?  Ah !  Paris,  Paris,  city  of  facile  pleasures 
and  brief  hours  !  To  think  that  in  quitting  all  that 
he  was  going,  perhaps,  to  get  his  head  broke.  But 
at  any  rate,  what  good  moments  he  had  had  there  ! 
—  what  intelligent  and  complete  enjoyment! 

In  the  fervour  of  his  gratitude  the  Slav  had  a 
sparkle  in  his  eye  for  all  the  passing  dames  who 
attracted  him  by  a  glance  or  the  twirl  of  a  lace 
skirt  spreading  fan-like.  The  knightly  king  of  the 
morning  between  wife  and  son,  kneeling  in  the 
oratory  before  departing  to  recover  his  kingdom, 
was  far  indeed  from  this  pretty  flusher  of  women, 
his  nose  on  the  alert,  his  conquering  hat  on  his 
curled  little  head,  with  a  rosy  glow  of  the  fever  of 
pleasure  on  his  cheeks.  Frederica  was  not  wrong 
in  cursing  the  ferment  of  Paris,  and  dreading  it  for 
this  fickle  brain,  frothy  as  a  wine  that  will  not 
keep. 

At  the  forking  of  the  Boulevard  Hausmann  with 
the  Avenue  de  Messine  Christian  stopped  and  let 
several  carriages  pass  him.  This  recalled  him 
to  reason.  How  had  he  come  there,  —  and  so 
quickly?  .  .  The  hotel  Potnicki  rose  in  the  vapor- 
ous light  of  the  western  sun  with  its  two  little  tur- 
rets, a  Parisian  castle,  and  its  alcoved  balcony.  .  . 
What  temptation  !  Why  should  he  not  go  there  ? 
Why  not  see  for  the  last  time  that  woman  who 
would  remain  forever  in  his  life  with  the  dry  and 
thirsty  memory  of  an  unsatisfied  desire? 

At  last,  after  a  terrible  momentary  debate,  his 


The  Night-  Train.  311 

uncertainty  plainly  visible  in  the  reed-like  swaying 
of  that  faltering  body,  he  took  an  heroic  decision, 
jumped  into  an  open  cab  that  was  then  passing, 
and  was  driven  to  the  club.  Never  would  he  have 
had  the  courage  to  do  this  without  his  oath  made 
to  God  in  the  morning  during  mass.  To  that 
pusillanimous  soul,  the  soul  of  a  Catholic  woman, 
that  oath  carried  all  before  it. 

At  the  club  he  found  a  letter  from  S6phora 
which,  merely  by  the  perfume  of  its  paper,  com- 
municated to  him  the  fever  in  which  it  was  written. 
Prince  d'Axel  brought  him  the  second  letter,  a  few 
hasty,  imploring  phrases  in  a  writing  that  the  books 
of  J.  Tom  Levis  had  never  witnessed.  But  here 
Christian  II.,  surrounded,  sustained,  watched,  felt 
himself  stronger,  being  of  those  to  whom  the  gal- 
lery imparts  an  attitude.  He  crumpled  the  letters 
into  his  pocket.  The  gay  youth  of  the  club  was 
now  arriving,  still  under  the  excitement  of  the  tale 
of  the  donkey  race,  related  at  full  length  in  a 
morning  paper.  The  sheet  was  passed  from  hand 
to  hand,  and  all  as  they  read  it  gave  that  exhausted 
laugh,  that  stomach  laugh  of  men  worn-out. 

"Do  we  make  fete  to-night?"  asked  these 
young  noblemen,  absorbing  sodas  and  other 
hygienic  waters,  of  which  the  club  had  an  un- 
limited supply. 

Enticed  by  them,  the  king  went  off  to  dinner 
at  the  Cafe  de  Londres ;  not  in  one  of  those  salons 
where  the  well-known  hangings  had  danced  a  dozen 
times  before  their  drunkenness,  and  the  mir/ors 
bore  their  names  written  and  scratched  like  a 


512  Kings  in  Exile. 

wintry  frost  upon  the  panes,  but  in  the  cellars, 
those  wonderful  catacombs  of  barrels  and  bottles 
drawn  up  in  regular  lines,  bearing  white  porcelain 
tickets  and  extending  as  far  as  beneath  the  theatre 
of  the  Opera-Comique.  Every  vintage  of  France 
lay  sleeping  there.  The  table  was  laid  at  the 
farther  end,  among  the  Chateau-Yquems,  which 
softly  beamed,  their  prostrate,  glaucous  bottles 
spangled  with  reflections  from  the  gas  and  the 
coloured-glass  chandeliers.  This  dinner  was  an 
idea  of  Wattelet,  who  wished  to  mark  the  king's 
departure  (known  only  to  himself  and  Prince 
d'Axel)  by  a  wholly  original  repast.  But  the 
effect  was  spoiled  by  the  dampness  of  the  walls 
and  ceilings,  which  penetrated  those  present,  al- 
ready worn-out  with  the  fatigues  of  the  night 
before.  Queue-de-Poule  went  to  sleep  and  only 
woke  by  shivering  starts.  Rigolo  said  little;  he 
laughed,  or  pretended  to  do  so,  and  looked  at  his 
watch  every  five  minutes.  Was  he  thinking  of  the 
queen,  whom  this  delay  in  his  return  would  terrify? 
At  the  dessert  a  few  women  arrived,  —  diners 
at  the  Caf6  de  Londres,  who,  knowing  that  the 
princes  were  below,  left  their  tables,  and,  guided 
by  the  waiters  with  candelabra,  slipped  down  into 
the  cellars,  their  trains  over  their  arms,  with  little 
cries  and  pretences  of  fright.  Nearly  all  were 
in  low  gowns.  At  the  end  of  five  minutes  they 
began  to  cough  and  grow  pale,  shivering  on  the 
knees  of  "  these  gentlemen,"  who  themselves  were 
protected  by  the  upturned  collars  of  their  coats. 
"  A  pretty  joke,"  said  one  of  them,  more  chilly,  or 


The  Night-Train.  313 

less  madcap  than  the  rest,  "  to  make  us  all  split 
our  lungs."  It  was  soon  decided  to  take  coffee  in 
the  salons,  and  during  the  removal  thither  the 
king  disappeared.  It  was  just  nine  o'clock.  His 
coupe  was  at  the  door. 

"  Avenue  de  Messine  .  .  ."  he  said  in  a  low  voice, 
his  teeth  clenched. 

The  thought  had  seized  him  like  a  madness. 
Throughout  the  dinner  he  had  seen  but  her,  her, 
breathing  of  her  alone  from  the  bare  skins  that 
surrounded  him.  Oh !  to  seize  her  in  his  arms 
and  be  no  longer  the  dupe  of  her  tears,  of  her 
prayers !  .  . 

"  Madame  is  out." 

It  was  a  dash  of  cold  water  in  a  furnace.  Ma- 
dame was  out.  He  could  not  doubt  it,  on  behold- 
ing the  license  of  the  household,  delivered  over  to 
a  crowd  of  servants,  whose  coloured  ribbons  and 
striped  waistcoats  Christian  saw  fleeing  in  all  direc- 
tions at  his  entrance.  He  asked  no  questions ;  sud- 
denly sobered,  he  measured  the  bottomless  abyss 
into  which  he  had  been  about  to  fall.  Perjured  to 
God,  a  traitor  to  the  crown !  .  .  The  chaplet  was 
in  his  burning  fingers ;  he  told  its  beads  in  aves, 
in  thanksgivings,  as  the  carriage  rolled  to  Saint- 
Mande"  through  the  fantastic  aspects  and  the 
nocturnal  terrors  of  the  night. 

"  The  king !  "  said  Elyse"e,  on  the  watch  at  the 
window,  as  soon  as  he  saw  the  lamps  of  the  coup6 
turning  brightly  into  the  courtyard.  The  king ! 
It  was  the  first  word  any  one  had  spoken  since 
dinner.  As  if  by  magic,  faces  were  illuminated, 


314  Kings  in  Exile. 

tongues  were  loosened  at  once.  The  queen  her- 
self, in  spite  of  her  apparent  calmness,  her  force 
of  will,  could  not  restrain  a  cry  of  joy.  She  had 
thought  all  lost,  Christian  kept  by  that  woman, 
abandoning  his  friends,  and  forever  dishonoured. 
Not  a  person  about  her,  during  those  three  mortal 
hours  of  expectant  waiting,  but  thought  the  same, 
with  the  same  uneasiness ;  even  poor  little  Zara, 
whom  the  queen  had  kept  up,  and  who,  under- 
standing the  anguish,  the  drama  of  that  silence, 
and  without  asking  one  of  those  questions  often 
so  cruel,  so  oracular  in  a  child's  shrill  voice,  had 
sheltered  himself  behind  the  covers  of  a  large 
portfolio,  whence  his  pretty  face  reappeared  of 
a  sudden  when  the  king  was  announced,  bathed 
in  tears,  which  had  flowed  silently  for  more  than 
an  hour.  When  asked,  later,  why  he  had  felt 
such  grief,  he  owned  he  was  unhappy  because 
he  feared  the  king  had  gone  without  kissing  him. 
Loving  little  soul,  to  whom  this  young  and  lively, 
smiling  father  was  like  an  elder  brother  full  of 
pranks  and  frolics,  a  most  attractive  elder  brother, 
though  he  made  their  mother  wretched. 

Christian's  quick,  curt  voice  was  heard  giving 
orders.  Then  he  went  to  his  chamber,  and  five 
minutes  later  appeared  all  equipped  for  his  journey 
in  a  little  hat  with  a  coquettish  buckle  and  blue 
band,  and  dainty  gaiters,  like  a  tourist  on  a  beach 
in  one  of  Wattelet's  pictures.  The  monarch  how- 
ever, was  visible  beneath  the  dandy;  authority, 
the  grand  air,  the  ease  of  appearing  nobly,  no 
matter  under  what  circumstances.  He  approached 


The  Night-Train.  315 

the  queen  and  murmured  a  few  excuses  for  being 
late.  Still  pale  with  emotion  she  said  to  him,  very 
low :  "  If  you  had  not  come,  I  should  have  gone 
with  Zara  to  take  your  place."  And  he  knew  very 
well  she  spoke  the  truth ;  he  saw  her  for  an  instant, 
her  child  in  her  arms  amid  the  balls,  as  on  the 
balcony  of  his  window  that  terrible  night,  and  the 
child  closing  his  beautiful,  resigned  eyes  in  face 
of  death.  Without  replying,  he  raised  Frederica's 
hand  to  his  lips  with  fervour ;  then,  with  an  im- 
petuous, youthful  movement  he  drew  her  to  him 
and  whispered  :  "  Forgive  !  .  .  forgive  !  .  ." 

Forgiveness  !  she  was  still  capable  of  it;  but  at 
that  instant  she  saw  at  the  door  of  the  salon, 
ready  to  accompany  his  master,  Lebeau,  that 
shuffling  valet,  the  confidant  of  pleasures  and 
treachery,  and  the  dreadful  thought  came  to 
her,  as  she  gently  disengaged  herself:  "What  if 
he  is  lying?  .  .  what  if  he  does  not  go?"  Christian 
divined  it.  Turning  to  M6raut  he  said :  "  You 
will  accompany  me  to  the  station.  .  .  Samy  will 
bring  you  back."  Then,  as  time  was  short,  he 
hurried  his  farewells,  said  an  amiable  word  to 
each,  to  Boscovich,  to  the  marquise,  took  Zara 
on  his  knee  and  spoke  to  him  of  the  expedition  he 
was  about  to  undertake  to  recover  his  kingdom ; 
told  him  never  to  cause  grief  to  the  queen ;  and  if 
he  did  not  see  his  father  again  to  remember  that 
he  died  for  the  country,  doing  his  duty  as  a  king. 
A  little  speech  a  la  Louis  XIV.,  really  not  ill- 
timed  and  to  which  the  little  prince  listened 
gravely,  somewhat  disconcerted  by  the  gravity 


316  Kings  in  Exile. 

of  the  words  from  lips  he  had  always  seen  smil- 
ing. But  Christian  was  ever  the  man  of  the 
moment,  all  mobility,  and  excessive  volatility,  now 
wholly  occupied  with  his  departure,  the  chances 
of  the  expedition,  and  more  touched  than  he  was 
willing  to  show ;  a  feeling  which  made  him  shorten 
the  tenderness  of  the  last  minute.  "  Adieu  !  .  . 
Adieu !  .  ."  he  said,  as,  with  a  wave  of  the  hand  to 
them  all,  and  a  profound  bow  to  the  queen,  he 
departed. 

Truly,  if  Elyse*e  M6raut  had  not  for  three  whole 
years  seen  the  interior  of  the  royal  household 
troubled  by  the  weaknesses,  the  shameful  frailties 
of  Christian  II.,  he  could  never  have  recognized 
the  Rigolo  of  the  Grand  Club  in  the  lofty,  heroic 
prince  who  explained  to  him  his  plans,  his  proj- 
ects, his  political  views,  so  broad,  so  wise,  as  they 
drove  at  a  rapid  pace  to  the  Lyon  station. 

The  royalist  faith  of  the  tutor,  always  a  little 
superstitious,  beheld  in  this  a  divine  intervention,  a 
privilege  of  caste,  the  king  recovering  himself,  as 
he  should,  at  a  vital  moment,  by  grace  of  con- 
secration and  heredity;  and,  without  explaining 
to  himself  exactly  why,  this  moral  rebirth  of 
Christian,  foreshadowing,  foretelling  his  restora- 
tion, caused  him  an  inexpressible  distress,  a  sin- 
gular jealousy  of  which  he  would  not  analyze  the 
cause.  While  Lebeau  was  engaged  in  buying 
tickets  and  registering  the  luggage,  they  walked 
together  up  and  down  the  long  waiting-room,  and 
in  the  solitude  of  this  night  departure  the  king 
could  not  keep  himself  from  thinking  of  S^phora 


The  Night-Train.  317 

and  his  tender  escortings  of  her  to  the  Saint- 
Lazare  station.  While  under  the  influence  of  this 
memory  a  woman  who  passed  them  attracted  his 
eye ;  the  same  height,  a  certain  something  of  that 
virtuous  yet  coquettish  step.  .-  . 

Poor  Christian  !  poor  unwilling  king  ! 

At  last,  however,  he  was  in  a  carriage,  the  door 
of  which  Lebeau  opened  to  him,  one  of  the  usual 
carriages  for  all  travellers,  so  as  not  to  attract 
attention.  He  flung  himself  into  a  corner,  in  haste 
to  be  done  with  departure,  to  be  off.  .  .  This 
slow  tearing  himself  away  was  painful  to  him.  A 
whistle,  the  train  moves,  draws  out,  leaps  noisily 
over  the  bridges  that  crossed  the  sleeping  suburbs 
with  their  rows  of  lamps,  and  reached  the  open 
country.  Christian  II.  breathed  freely;  he  felt 
himself  strong,  saved,  out  of  danger ;  he  would 
almost  have  sung  were  he  alone  in  the  carriage. 
But  at  the  farther  end,  by  the  other  window,  a 
little  figure,  sunk  in  the  dark  corner  seemed  to 
shrink  with  the  desire  to  escape  attention.  'Twas 
a  woman.  Young,  old,  ugly,  pretty?  The  king 
—  mere  habit  —  cast  a  look  that  way.  Nothing 
stirred  but  the  two  feathers  of  a  little  hat,  which 
seemed  to  droop  and  fold  as  if  to  rest.  "  She 
sleeps,"  he  thought,  "  and  so  will  I.  .  ."  He 
stretched  himself  out,  wrapped  a  rug  about  him, 
and  looked  vaguely  for  a  time  at  the  silhouettes 
of  the  trees  and  bushes  confused  and  softened  by 
the  darkness  and  seeming  to  fall  one  upon  another 
as  the  train  went  by,  at  the  mile-posts,  at  the 
clouds  errant  on  the  midnight  sky.  His  eyelids, 


Kings  m  Exile. 

growing  heavy,  were  about  to  close  when  he  felt 
upon  his  cheek  the  caress  of  a  soft  curl  and  low- 
ered eyelids,  a  violet  breath,  and  two  lips  murmur- 
ing upon  his  lips :  "  Cruel !  .  .  without  bidding  me 
farewell !  "  .  .  . 

Ten  hours  later,  Christian  II.  awoke  to  a  sound 
of  cannon,  to  the  blinding  light  of  a  country 
sun  checkered  with  murmuring  foliage.  He  had 
dreamed  that  he  was  mounting  at  the  head  of 
his  troops  beneath  a  hail  of  fire  the  steep  ascent 
from  the  port  of  Ragusa  to  the  citadel.  But  in- 
stead of  that  he  awoke  to  find  himself  motionless 
in  a  vast  bed,  his  eyes  and  brain  blurred,  his  limbs 
resting  in  a  delightful  lassitude.  What  had  hap- 
pened ?  Little  by  little  he  saw  more  clearly ;  he 
gathered  himself  together.  He  was  at  Fontaine- 
bleau,  in  the  hotel  du  Faisan,  opposite  to  the 
forest,  where  the  green  and  close-pressed  tree- 
tops  rose  in  the  blue  of  ether,  while  the  cannon 
of  the  neighbouring  camp  was  being  exercised. 
And  the  living  reality,  the  visible  link  of  his 
ideas,  Se"phora,  was  seated  before  that  eternal 
secretary  (seen  nowhere  now  but  in  hotels)  writ- 
ing actively  with  a  pen  that  spluttered. 

She  saw  in  a  mirror  before  her  the  admiring, 
grateful  glance  of  the  king,  and  replied,  without 
turning  round,  by  a  tender  kiss  from  her  eyes  and 
the  tip  of  her  pen,  after  which  she  continued  to 
write  placidly,  showing  the  glimmer  of  a  smile  at 
the  corner  of  'those  seraphic  lips.  "  A  telegram 
that  I  am  sending  just  to  reassure  my  people," 
she  said,  as  she  rose  to  ring  the  bell.  The  de- 


The  Night-Train.  319 

spatch  given,  and  the  waiter  gone,  she  opened 
the  window,  relieved  of  a  great  anxiety,  to  let  in 
the  golden  sunshine,  which  entered  in  floods,  like 
the  waters  of  a  sluice.  "  Heavens  !  how  lovely  it 
is !  .  ."  she  said.  Then  she  went  to  the  bed  and 
sat  down  upon  the  edge  of  it  near  her  lover.  She 
laughed,  she  was  wild  with  delight  at  being  in  the 
country,  at  the  prospect  of  wandering  in  the  woods 
on  this  exquisite  day.  They  had  plenty  of  time 
before  the  midnight  train  that  brought  them 
should  carry  Christian  on  his  way;  for  Lebeau, 
who  had  continued  his  journey,  was  to  notify 
Ilezeta  and  his  gentlemen  that  the  embarcation 
of  the  king,  and  consequently  their  own,  was  de- 
layed for  a  day.  The  amorous  Slav  himself  would 
have  preferred  to  draw  the  curtains  on  his  happi- 
ness till  the  very  last  hour.  But  women  are  more 
ideal ;  and  directly  after  breakfast  a  hired  landau 
took  them  through  the  splendid  avenues,  bordered 
with  lawns  and  groups  of  trees,  which  open  into 
the  forest,  like  the  park  at  Versailles,  before  the 
great  rocks  break  it  up  into  superb  and  natural 
sites.  It  was  the  first  time  Sephora  and  the  king 
had  ever  driven  out  together,  and  Christian  enjoyed 
the  brief  pleasure  on  the  terrible  eve  of  battle  and 
disaster. 

They  rolled  along  under  the  vast  arcades  of 
greenery  where  the  foliage  of  the  beeches  drooped 
in  slender  branches,  motionless,  threaded  by  a 
distant  sunshine  which  seemed  to  find  it  hard  to 
pierce  this  verdure  of  primeval  development. 
Beneath  that  shade,  with  no  other  horizon  than 


320  Kings  in  Exile. 

the  profile  of  a  beloved  woman,  without  other 
hope,  other  memory,  other  desire  than  her  ca- 
resses, the  poetic  nature  of  the  Slav  poured  itself 
out.  Oh  !  to  live  there,  both  of  them,  they  alone, 
in  the  little  house  of  a  keeper,  moss  and  thatch 
without,  a  soft,  luxurious  nest  within !  .  .  He 
wanted  to  know  when  she  had  begun  to  love  him ; 
what  impression  had  he  made  on  her  at  first?  He 
translated  for  her  the  love-songs  of  his  native 
land,  with  kisses  on  her  throat  and  on  her  eyes ; 
and  she  listened,  feigning  to  comprehend,  to  reply, 
her  eyelids  closing,  heavy  from  want  of  sleep. 

Eternal  discord  in  the  duets  of  love  !  Christian 
wished  that  they  should  bury  themselves  in  soli- 
tary, unexplored  places ;  Sephora  sought  the  cele- 
brated points,  the  curiosities  of  the  forest,  the 
places  shown  where  boulders  trembled,  and  rocks 
wept,  and  trees  were  blasted,  and  the  people  shel- 
tered in  huts  and  caves,  from  which  they  ran  at  the 
slightest  sound  of  wheels.  She  hoped  to  escape  in 
this  way  the  wearisome  and  monotonous  canticle 
of  love,  while  Christian  was  admiring  her  touching 
patience  in  listening  to  the  interminable  talk  of 
the  worthy  country-people,  who  have  time  and  to 
spare  for  all  they  do. 

At  Franchart  she  insisted  on  drawing  water 
from  the  famous  well  of  the  old  monks,  so  deep 
that  it  takes  the  bucket  twenty  minutes  to  come 
up.  Fancy  how  amusing  to  Christian !  .  .  Next 
was  a  woman  medalled  like  an  old  gendarme, 
who  showed  them  the  beauties  of  the  site,  the 
ancient  pond  on  the  banks  of  which  the  stag  was 


The  Night- Train.  321 

always  taken,  —  an  old  story  told  in  the  same  lan- 
guage for  so  many  years  that  she  fancied  she  had 
belonged  to  the  convent,  and,  three  centuries  later, 
had  been  present  in  person  at  the  sumptuous 
country  pleasure-parties  of  the  first  Empire.  "  It 
was  here,  monsieur,  madame,  that  the  great 
emperor  sat  down  with  all  his  Court;  "  and  she 
showed  among  the  bushes  a  granite  bench  long 
enough  for  three  or  four  persons  at  most.  Then 
in  a  lofty  tone :  "  Opposite,  the  empress,  with  her 
ladies  of  honour.  .  ."  It  was  sinister,  this  evoca- 
tion of  imperial  pomp  amid  the  fallen  rocks  and 
gnarled  and  twisted  trees,  and  arid  gorse.  "  Come, 
Sephora !  .  ."  said  Christian.  But  Sephora  was 
looking  at  an  esplanade  where,  according  to  the 
guide,  they  were  taking  the  little  King  of  Rome 
when  he  saw  in  the  distance  his  august  parents 
and  stretched  his  arms  to  them.  This  vision  of 
the  child-prince  reminded  the  King  of  Illyria  of 
his  little  Zara.  The  child  rose  up  before  him, 
held  by  Frederica,  and  looked  at  him  with  his 
great  sad  eyes  as  if  asking  him  what  he  was  doing 
there.  But  it  was  only  a  vague  reminiscence 
quickly  smothered,  and  they  continued  their  way 
beneath  those  oaks  of  all  sizes,  the  meeting- 
places  of  famous  hunts,  through  the  slopes  of 
green  valleys  and  along  the  crest  of  hills  over- 
looking the  amphitheatres  of  crumbling  granite 
or  gravel-pits  where  fir-trees  ploughed  the  red 
and  sandy  soil  with  their  strong  projecting  roots. 

Presently  they  were  following  a  dark  path  im- 
penetrably shady,  with  deep,  damp  ruts.     On  either 

2i 


322  Kings  in  Exile. 

side  a  line  of  great  tree-trunks,  like  the  columns  of 
a  cathedral  formed  silent  naves,  where  the  patter 
of  a  squirrel  or  the  fall  of  a  detached  leaf  like  a  bit 
of  gold  was  heard.  An  immense  sadness  seemed 
to  fall  from  those  tree-tops,  those  branches  with- 
out birds,  sonorous  and  empty  as  deserted  houses. 
Christian,  full  of  his  love,  deepened  its  passion  as 
the  day  advanced  with  a  note  of  melancholy  and 
mourning.  He  told  how  before  departing  he  had 
made  his  will,  and  dwelt  on  the  emotion  those 
words  from  beyond  the  grave,  written  when  full 
of  life,  had  caused  him. 

"Yes,  very  annoying  .  .  ."  said  S6phora,  like 
one  who  is  thinking  of  something  else.  But  he 
believed  himself  so  loved,  he  was  so  accustomed 
to  be  loved,  that  he  paid  no  heed  to  her  absent- 
mindedness.  He  even  consoled  her  in  advance  in 
case  of  misfortune ;  he  traced  her  a  plan  of  exist- 
ence; she  must  sell  the  house  in  the  Avenue  de 
Messine,  retire  to  the  country,  and  live  with  her 
memories.  It  was  all  adorably  conceited,  naive, 
and  sincere ;  he  felt  in  his  heart  a  sadness  of  fare- 
well which  he  mistook  for  presentiments.  And 
then  in  a  lowered  voice,  their  hands  clasped,  he 
spoke  of  the  other  world.  Round  his  neck  was  a 
medal  of  the  Virgin,  which  never  left  him ;  he  now 
took  it  off — for  her.  You  can  imagine  S^phora's 
happiness !  .  . 

After  a  while  an  artillery  encampment,  the  gray 
tents  of  which  became  visible  through  the  branches, 
the  light  smoke,  the  unbridled  horses,  tethered  for 
the  night,  turned  the  king's  thoughts  to  another 


The  Night- Train.  323 

channel.  The  coming  and  going  of  uniforms,  of 
convoys,  all  that  camp  activity  in  the  open  air  and 
the  setting  sun,  that  fortifying  sight  of  soldiers  in 
the  field,  roused  his  nomad  and  warrior-race  in- 
stincts. The  carriage,  rolling  along  the  mossy 
green  carpet  of  the  wide  avenue,  caused  all  the 
soldiers,  busy  in  pitching  tents  or  in  making  soup, 
to  lift  their  heads,  and  watch  the  smiling  civilian 
and  his  pretty  companion  pass.  Christian  would 
fain  have  spoken  to  them,  harangued  them,  plung- 
ing his  eyes  beneath  the  copses  to  the  very 
extremity  of  the  camp.  In  front  of  a  command- 
ing officer's  tent  standing  a  little  apart  on  a  level 
piece  of  ground,  a  beautiful  Arab  horse  was  rear- 
ing, nostril  expanded,  mane  to  the  breeze,  and 
neighing  for  the  warrior  summons.  The  Slav's 
eyes  sparkled.  Ah  !  the  fine  life  a  few  days  hence  ! 
the  good  solid  blows  he  was  soon  to  give !  But 
what  a  pity  that  Lebeau  in  going  on  to  Mar- 
seilles had  taken  the  luggage  with  him  !  How  he 
wished  that  she  might  see  him  in  his  lieutenant- 
general's  uniform  !  Thus  exciting  himself,  he  fan- 
cied the  gates  of  the  towns  all  forced,  the  republi- 
cans put  to  flight,  and  he  pictured  his  triumphal 
entry  into  Leybach,  the  streets  gay  with  banners. 
She  would  be  there,  thank  God  !  He  would  send 
for  her  and  install  her  in  a  splendid  palace  at  the 
gates  of  the  town.  There  they  would  continue  to 
see  each  other  as  freely  as  in  Paris.  To  these  fine 
projects  Sephora  did  not  answer  very  much.  No 
doubt  she  would  have  preferred  to  keep  him  for 
herself,  wholly  her  own;  and  Christian  admired 


324  Kings  in  Exile. 

that  silent  abnegation  which  placed  her  so   truly 
in  her  station  as  mistress  of  the  king. 

Ah!  how  he  loved  her,  and  how  quickly  that 
evening  at  the  hotel  des  Faisans  went  by  in  their 
red  room ;  the  great  light  curtains  dropped  before 
the  summer  evening  of  a  little  town  with  its  few 
lights,  humming  with  the  talk  of  promenaders  or 
of  persons  before  their  doors,  —  soon  dispersed, 
however,  by  the  "  taps  "  of  drum  and  bugle.  What 
kisses,  what  follies,  what  passionate  promises,  going 
to  rejoin  the  kisses  and  oaths  of  the  night  before ! 
Delightfully  weary,  pressing  against  each  other, 
they  listened  to  their  hearts  beating  with  great 
throbs,  while  the  warm  wind  shook  their  curtains, 
after  murmuring  in  the  trees  and  scattering  the 
drops  of  a  fountain  in  the  little  garden  of  the 
hotel,  that  resembled  an  Arab  patio,  into  which 
gleamed  the  red  and  flickering  lamp  of  the  office. 

One  o'clock.  It  was  time  to  go.  Christian 
dreaded  this  wrench  at  the  last  moment,  believing 
that  he  should  have  to  struggle  against  prayers  and 
appeals  that  would  summon  all  his  courage  to  with- 
stand. On  the  contrary,  S6phora  was  ready  first, 
determined  to  accompany  him  to  the  station,  less 
anxious  for  her  love  than  for  the  honour  of  her 
royal  lover.  .  .  Ah !  if  he  could  only  have  heard 
the  "  ouf!  "  of  relief  she  gave,  cruel  creature,  when, 
standing  alone  upon  the  platform  she  saw  the  two 
green  eyes  of  the  train  wind  away  in  the  distance ! 
If  he  could  but  have  known  how  glad  she  was  to 
return  to  the  hotel  alone  for  a  night's  rest,  saying 
to  herself  as  the  empty  omnibus  jolted  over  the 


The  Night-Train.  325 

old  paved  streets  of  Fontainebleau,  in  a  composed 
tone,  utterly  without  any  loverlike  emotion :  "  Now, 
if  Tom  has  only  done  what  is  necessary  !  .  ." 

Most  assuredly  Tom  had  done  what  was  neces- 
sary ;  for  on  the  arrival  of  the  train  at  Marseilles, 
Christian  II.,  getting  out  of  his  carriage,  valise  in 
hand,  was  much  astonished  to  see  a  flat  cap  with 
silver  lace  approach  him  and  request,  very  politely, 
that  he  would  enter  the  office  for  a  moment. 

"Why?..  Who  are  you?"  asked  the  king, 
very  haughtily. 

"  Commissary  of  inspection,"  the  flat  cap  replied, 
bowing. 

In  the  office,  Christian  found  the  prefect  of 
Marseilles,  a  former  journalist,  with  a  red  beard 
and  a  shrewd  and  lively  face. 

"  I  regret  to  inform  your  Majesty  that  your  jour- 
ney ends  here,"  he  said  with  exquisite  politeness. 
"  My  government  cannot  allow  a  prince  to  whom 
France  has  given  hospitality  to  profit  by  that 
privilege  to  conspire  and  arm  against  a  friendly 
nation." 

The  king  attempted  to  protest.  But  every  detail 
of  the  expedition  was  known  to  the  prefect. 

"  You  intended  to  embark  at  Marseilles ;  your 
companions  at  Cette,  on  a  steamer  from  Jersey .  .  . 
the  landing  to  be  made  on  the  beach  at  Gravosa ; 
the  signal  two  rockets,  one  on  board,  the  other  on 
shore.  .  .  You  see  we  are  thoroughly  informed.  .  . 
So  they  are  at  Ragusa ;  and  I  am  saving  you  from 
a  veritable  ambuscade." 


326  Kings  in  Exile. 

Christian  II.,  thunderstruck,  asked  himself  who 
could  possibly  have  revealed  information  known 
only  to  himself,  the  queen,  de  Hezeta,  and  one 
other,  whom  he  was  far  indeed  from  suspecting. 
The  prefect  smiled  in  his  blond  beard. 

"  Come,  monsieur,"  he  said, "  you  must  make  up 
your  mind  to  it.  The  affair  is  a  failure.  You  may 
be  more  lucky  another  time  —  and  more  prudent 
also.  .  .  At  present  I  entreat  your  Majesty  to 
accept  the  shelter  which  I  offer  at  the  prefecture. 
Elsewhere  you  will  be  at  the  mercy  of  annoying 
curiosity.  The  affair  is  known  in  the  town.  .  . " 

Christian  made  no  immediate  reply.  He  looked 
round  at  the  little  office  with  its  green  arm-chair, 
green  boxes,  porcelain  stove,  and  the  huge  cards 
marked  with  train  departures,  the  miserably  bour- 
geois corner  where  his  heroic  dream  had  come  to 
nought  and  the  last  echoes  of  RodoYtza  died  away. 
He  was  like  a  traveller  in  a  balloon,  starting  for 
heights  above  all  summits  and  coming  down  almost 
at  the  same  place  in  a  peasant's  hovel  with  his  poor 
collapsed  aerostat,  a  bundle  of  gummed  cloth,  under 
the  roof  of  a  stable. 

He  ended  however,  by  accepting  the  invitation, 
and  found  in  the  prefect's  apartments  a  really 
Parisian  interior,  —  a  charming  wife,  very  good 
musician,  who  after  dinner  and  a  general  conversa- 
tion, in  which  were  reviewed  all  the  topics  of  the 
day,  sat  down  to  the  piano  and  turned  over  the 
score  of  a  recent  opera.  The  lady  had  a  very 
pretty  voice  and  sang  agreeably;  little  by  little, 
Christian  approached  her  and  talked  music  and 


The  Night-Train.  327 

opera.  The  "  Echos  of  Illyria  "  was  lying  on  the 
piano  between  the  "  Reine  de  Saba "  and  the 
"  Jolie  Parfumeuse."  Madame  requested  the  king 
to  show  her  the  time  and  tone  of  his  native  songs. 
Christian  II.  sang  several  of  the  popular  airs : 
"  Sweet  eyes,  blue  as  summer  skies,"  and  "  Young 
girls,  listen  as  you  braid  your  hair.  .  .  " 

And  while  he  thus  leaned,  pale  and  seductive, 
on  the  piano,  taking  the  intonations  and  the  mel- 
ancholy attitude  of  an  exile,  afar  on  the  Illyrian 
seas,  where  the  "  Echos "  sang  of  waves  snow- 
tipped  and  shores  of  bristling  cactus,  a  fine  enthu- 
siastic band  of  youth  and  hope,  whom  Lebeau 
had  neglected  to  delay,  was  sailing  joyously  to 
death,  with  wind  abaft  and  cries  of  "  Long  live 
Christian  II.!" 


o 


28  Kings  in  Exile. 


XIII. 

IN  THE   CHAPEL. 

"  MY  dear  love,  we  have  just  been  brought  back 
to  the  citadel  of  Ragusa,  M.  de  Hezeta  and  I,  after 
a  session  of  ten  hours  in  the  Corso  theatre,  where 
the  council  of  war  appointed  to  try  us  was  sitting. 
We  are  unanimously  condemned  to  death. 

"  I  must  tell  you  that  I  like  it  better  so.  At  least 
one  now  knows  what  to  expect,  and  we  shall  be  no 
longer  in  solitary  confinement.  I  may  read  your 
dear  letters,  and  I  can  write  to  you.  Silence  was 
choking  me.  To  know  nothing  of  you,  my  Colette, 
of  my  father,  of  the  king,  whom  I  thought  killed, 
the  victim  of  an  ambush !  Happily  his  Majesty 
escapes  with  a  sad  disappointment  and  the  loss  of 
a  few  loyal  servants.  Things  might  have  been 
worse. 

"  The  newspapers  must  have  told  you —  have 
they  not?  —  how  matters  turned  out.  The  counter- 
order  of  the  king  by  some  incredible  fatality  never 
reached  us.  At  seven  in  the  evening,  as  agreed 
upon  we  were  to  leeward  of  the  islands,  which  was 
the  rendezvous :  Hezeta  and  I  on  deck,  the  others 
below,  all  armed,  equipped,  with  your  pretty 
cockade  in  their  hats.  We  cruised  about  for  two 
hours,  three  hours.  Nothing  in  sight  but  fisher- 


In  the  Chapel.  2 29 

men's  boats  or  those  great  feluccas  of  the  coast- 
guard service.  Night  came  on  and  with  it  a 
sea-fog  very  hindering  to  our  meeting  with  the 
king.  After  long  waiting,  we  ended  by  thinking 
that  his  Majesty's  steamer  must  have  passed  ours 
without  seeing  us,  and  that  he  himself  might  have 
landed.  And  sure  enough,  from  the  shore  where 
we  were  told  to  expect  our  signal,  a  rocket  went 
up.  That  signified  :  '  Disembark  ! '  No  longer 
any  doubt,  the  king  was  there ;  we  started  to  join 
him. 

"In  virtue  of  my  knowledge  of  the  country  — 
many  a  time  I  have  shot  wild.-duck  along  this  coast 
- 1  commanded  the  first  boat,  Hezeta  the  second, 
M.  de  Miremont  the  third  with  the  Parisians.  We 
were  all  Illyrians  in  my  boat  and  our  hearts  beat 
high.  The  country  was  before  us! — that  black 
shore  rising  in  the  fog  and  ending  in  a  small  red 
speck,  the  revolving  light  of  Gravosa;  still,  the 
silence  on  the  shore  surprised  me.  Nothing  but 
the  sound  of  receding  waves,  like  the  clapping 
of  wet  cloths ;  not  that  murmur  which  the  most 
silent  of  crowds  must  make,  the  clicking  of  arms, 
the  panting  of  restrained  breaths. 

"  '  I  see  our  men  !  .  .'  said  San  Giorgio,  in  a  low 
voice  close  beside  me. 

"  We  discovered,  the  moment  we  sprang  ashore, 
that  what  we  had  taken  for  the  king's  volunteers 
were  clumps  of  cactus  and  Barbary  figs  behind  the 
beech.  I  advanced.  No  one.  But  the  sands 
were  trampled  and  cut  up.  I  said  to  the  marquis : 
'  It  is  suspicious.  .  .  Let  us  re-embark.'  Un- 


330  Kings  in  Exile. 

fortunately  the  Parisians  arrived  just  then.  There 
was  no  restraining  them.  Away  they  went,  scatter- 
ing  along  the  shore,  examining  the  bushes,  the 
copses.  All  of  a  sudden,  a  line  of  fire,  the  crackle 
of  a  volley.  They  shouted  :  '  Treachery  !  .  .  treach- 
ery !  .  .  get  back  ! '  and  rushed  for  the  boats.  A 
regular  helter-skelter  like  sheep,  maddened,  jost- 
ling, into  the  sea.  A  moment  of  wild  panic, 
lighted  by  the  moon,  just  risen,  which  showed  us 
our  English  sailors  escaping  with  all  oars  to  the 
ship.  .  .  But  it  did  not  last  long.  Hezeta  was 
the  first  to  spring  forward,  revolver  in  hand. 
'  Avanti !  .  .  avanti !  .  .'  What  a  voice !  The 
whole  shore  resounded  with  it.  We  flung  our- 
selves behind  him.  .  .  Fifty  against  an  army !  .  . 
There  was  nothing  to  do  but  die.  That  is  what 
they  all  did,  with  a  grand  courage :  Pozzo,  de 
Melida,  the  little  de  Soris,  your  lover  of  last  year, 
Henri  de  Trebigne  —  calling  out  to  me  in  the 
melee :  '  Look  here,  Herbert,  we  miss  the  guz- 
las.  .  .'  and  Jean  de  Veliko,  who  sang  'La  Ro- 
do'ftza'  as  he  sabred  his  way,  all  —  all  —  fell;  I 
saw  them  on  the  shore,  lying  on  the  sand,  looking 
up  to  the  sky.  The  rising  tide  came  up  and 
buried  them,  the  dancers  at  our  ball !  .  .  Less 
fortunate  than  our  comrades,  the  marquis  and  I, 
sole  survivors  of  that  hail-storm,  were  taken  pris- 
oners, bound,  and  ridden  into  Ragusa  on  mule- 
back,  your  Herbert  roaring  with  impotent  rage, 
while  Hezeta,  very  calm,  said  merely :  '  It  is 
fate.  .  .  I  expected  it !  .  .'  Strange  man !  How 
could  he  know  that  we  should  be  betrayed,  sacri- 


In  the  Chapel.  331 

ficed,  received  on  landing  with  pointed  guns  and 
volleys  of  bullets?  And  if  he  knew  it,  why  did 
he  lead  us  ?  However,  the  stroke  has  missed ; 
the  game  is  still  to  play  again  with  more  pre- 
cautions. 

"  I  now  understand  from  your  dear  letters,  which 
I  never  tire  of  reading  and  rereading,  why  the 
settlement  of  our  case  has  hung  on  so  long,  why 
these  sessions  of  black  robes  in  the  citadel,  these 
negotiations  about  our  two  lives,  these  ups  and 
downs  and  long  delays.  So  it  seems  that  the 
wretches  are  treating  us  as  hostages,  hoping  that 
the  king,  who  would  not  renounce  his  rights  for 
hundreds  of  millions,  would  yield  at  last,  rather 
than  sacrifice  two  of  his  faithful  servants.  And 
you  are  angry,  dear,  that  he  does  not;  you  are 
amazed,  blinded  by  your  tenderness,  that  my 
father  does  not  urge  him  in  favour  of  his  son. 
But  a  Rosen  —  could  a  Rosen  do  so  base  a 
thing?  .  .  He  does  not  love  me  less,  the  poor  old 
man,  and  my  death  will  be  to  him  an  awful  blow. 
As  for  our  sovereigns,  whom  you  accuse  of  cruelty, 
we  do  not  have,  in  judging  them,  the  lofty  point  of 
view  from  which  they  govern  men.  They  have 
duties,  rights,  outside  of  common  rules.  Ah ! 
what  things  could  M^raut  tell  you  about  that.  I 
feel  them,  but  I  cannot  express  them.  Thoughts 
stay  within,  they  will  not  come  out ;  my  jaws  are 
too  heavy.  How  many  a  time  has  this  hampered 
me  with  you,  whom  I  love  so  much,  but  to  whom 
I  could  never  tell  it !  Even  here,  separated  by  so 
many  leagues  and  those  thick  iron  bars,  the  thought 


33  2  Kings  in  Exile. 

of  your  sweet  gray  eyes,  so  Parisian,  those  mis- 
chievous lips  beneath  the  pretty  little  nose  that 
wrinkles  to  deride  me,  still  intimidates,  still  para- 
lyzes me. 

"  And  yet,  before  I  leave  you  forever,  I  must 
indeed  strive  to  make  you  understand  for  once, 
that  I  have  loved  but  you  in  this  world,  and  that 
my  life  began  the  day  when  I  first  saw  you.  Do 
you  remember  it,  Colette?  It  was  in  those  shops 
in  the  Rue  Royale,  that  agency  of  Levis.  We  were 
there,  my  father  and  I,  by  chance,  so-called.  You 
were  trying  a  piano ;  you  played,  you  sang  some- 
thing so  gay,  so  gay,  and  it  made  me  long,  I  knew 
not  why,  to  weep.  Ah !  I  had  fallen  in  love.  .  . 
Who  would  have  thought  it !  A  marriage  a  la 
Parisienne,  a  marriage  through  an  agency,  to  turn 
into  a  marriage  of  love  !  And  since  then,  in  society, 
in  any  society,  I  have  seen  no  woman  so  delightful 
as  my  Colette.  You  may  rest  easy,  you  were 
always  with  me,  even  absent ;  the  thought  of  your 
pretty  little  visage  kept  me  forever  in  good- 
humour;  I  laughed  to  myself  all  alone  when  I 
thought  of  it.  It  is  true  that  you  have  always 
inspired  me  to  that  —  to  laughing  tenderly.  .  . 
Why,  even  now,  when  our  fate  is  terrible,  especially 
the  way  in  which  they  present  it  to  us  —  Hezeta 
and  I  are  moved  into  the  chapel,  that  is  to  say,  into 
a  little  cell  with  plastered  walls,  where  they  have 
raised  an  altar  for  our  last  mass  and  placed  a 
coffin  before  each  bed  and  on  the  walls  placards 
on  which  is  written  '  Death  .  .  .  Death.  .  .'  —  Well, 
in  spite  of  all  that,  the  room  seems  gay.  I  escape 


In  the  Chapel.  333 

these  funereal  threats  by  thinking  of  my  Colette ; 
and  when  I  climb  to  the  barred  loop-hole,  the 
lovely  landscape,  the  road  which  descends  from 
Ragusa  to  Gravosa,  the  aloes,  the  cactus  against 
the  sky  or  the  blue  sea,  remind  me  of  our  wedding 
journey,  the  Corniche  from  Monaco  to  Monte 
Carlo,  and  the  bells  of  our  mules,  carrying  a  joy  as 
gay  and  ringing  as  their  own.  Oh  !  my  little  wife, 
how  sweet  you  were,  dear  traveller,  with  whom  I 
would  fain  have  journeyed  longer.  .  . 

"  You  see  now  that  your  image  lives  and  triumphs 
ever,  even  on  the  threshold  of  death,  nay,  in  death, 
fjr  I  will  carry  it  as  a  scapulary  on  my  breast, 
down  there,  by  the  Sea-gate,  where  they  will  take 
us  in  a  few  hours;  it  will  enable  me  to  fall  smil- 
ing. And  so,  dear  love,  do  not  grieve  too  much. 
Think  of  the  little  one,  the  child  that  is  to  be. 
Keep  well  for  him,  and  when  he  is  able  to  under- 
stand it,  tell  him  I  died  like  a  soldier,  standing, 
with  two  names  upon  my  lips  —  my  wife's  name 
and  my  king's. 

"  I  would  have  liked  to  leave  you  a  souvenir  at  my 
last  moment ;  but  they  have  stripped  me  of  every- 
thing, watch,  wedding-ring,  cravat-pin.  I  have 
nothing  left  but  a  pair  of  white  gloves,  which  I 
meant  to  wear  on  our  entrance  to  Ragusa.  I  will 
wear  them  now  to  do  honour  to  my  death,  and  the 
prison  chaplain  has  promised  me  to  send  them  to 
you. 

"  And  now  —  adieu,  my  Colette,  darling.  Do  not 
weep.  I  say  that  to  you  —  and  I,  my  tears  are 
blinding  me.  Console  my  father.  Poor  man! 


334  Kings  in  Exile. 

He,  who  always  scolded  me  for  coming  late  on  duty. 
I  shall  come  no  more.  .  .  Adieu.  .  .  adieu.  .  .  And 
yet  I  had  so  many  things  to  say  to  you.  .  .  But 
no  !  I  have  to  die.  .  .  Ah !  what  a  fate  !  .  .  Adieu, 
Colette. 

"  HERBERT  DE  ROSEN." 


A  Solution.  335 


XIV. 

A   SOLUTION. 

"  ONE  way  is  left  to  you,  sire." 

"  Speak  out,  my  dear  M6raut ;  I  am  prepared  for 
everything." 

M6raut  hesitated  to  answer.  What  he  was  about 
to  say  seemed  to  him  too  serious,  too  completely 
out  of  place  in  that  billiard-room,  where  the  king 
had  dragged  him  to  play  a  game  after  breakfast. 
But  the  strange  irony  which  presides  over  the  fate 
of  dethroned  sovereigns  willed  that  it  should  be 
before  that  green  table,  where  the  balls  were 
rattling  with  a  hollow,  sinister  sound  in  the  silence 
and  mourning  of  the  house  at  Saint-Mand6,  that 
the  fate  of  the  royal  race  of  Illyria  should  be 
decided. 

"Well?.."  asked  Christian  II.,  stretching  for- 
ward to  touch  his  ball. 

"  Well,  monseigneur.  .  .  ." 

He  waited  till  the  king  had  made  his  shot  and 
Councillor  Boscovich  had  devoutly  marked  it,  be- 
fore he  continued,  with  a  shade  of  embarrassment : 

"  The  people  of  Illyria  are  like  all  the  other 
peoples,  sire.  They  like  success,  strength ;  and  I 
fear  that  the  fatal  issue  of  our  enterprise.  .  ." 

The  king  turned  round,  the  colour  in  his  cheeks. 


33^  Kings  in  Exile. 

'•'  I  asked  you  for  the  truth,  my  dear  fellow. 
Useless  to  wrap  it  up  in  all  these  curl-papers." 

"  Sire,  you  must  abdicate,"  said  the  Gascon, 
harshly. 

Christian  looked  at  him  in  amazement. 

"Abdicate  what?"  he  asked.  "I  have  noth- 
ing ...  a  fine  present  to  make  my  son  !  .  .  I  think 
he  would  rather  have  a  new  velocipede  than  that 
vague  promise  of  a  crown  at  his  majority." 

M6raut  quoted  the  case  of  the  Queen  of  Galicia. 
She  had  abdicated  for  her  son  during  exile ;  and 
if  Don  Leo  was  now  upon  the  throne  it  was  to 
that  abdication  that  he  owed  it. 

"  Eighteen  to  twelve !  .  ."  said  Christian,  ab- 
ruptly ...  "  Monsieur  le  conseiller,  you  are  not 
marking." 

Boscovich  started  like  a  frightened  hare  and 
sprang  to  the  board,  while  the  king,  his  body  and 
his  mind  on  the  stretch,  was  completely  absorbed 
in  making  a  wonderful  "  four-cushioned  "  stroke, 
filysee  gazed  at  him,  and  his  royalist  faith  was 
once  more  put  to  a  rough  test  before  that  type  of 
spineless  dandy,  vanquished  without  honour,  his 
thin  throat  wholly  exposed  by  a  loose  flannel 
jacket,  his  eyes,  mouth,  and  the  sides  of  his  nostrils 
still  yellow  with  a  jaundice  from  which  he  was 
scarcely  recovered  after  keeping  to  his  bed  for  a 
month.  The  disaster  at  Gravosa,  the  cruel  end  of 
those  fine  young  men,  the  terrible  scenes  to  which 
the  trial  of  Herbert  and  Hezeta  had  given  rise  in 
the  little  Court  at  Saint-Mande,  Colette  flinging 
herself  on  her  knees  before  her  former  lover  to 


A  Solution.  337 

obtain  her  husband's  pardon,  the  slow  agony,  the 
waiting  with  strained  ears  for  that  horrible  shot 
which  he  seemed  himself  to  have  commanded,  and, 
above  all,  his  money  troubles,  the  notes  to  Pichery, 
falling  due  —  all  this  savage  rancour  of  an  evil 
fate,  though  it  had  not  conquered  the  careless  in- 
difference of  the  Slav,  had  physically  broken  him 
clown. 

After  making  his  cannon  he  stood  still  and, 
chalking  his  cue  with  the  utmost  care,  he  asked 
Meraut,  without  looking  at  him :  — 

"  What  does  the  queen  think  of  this  project  of 
abdication?  Have  you  spoken  to  her  about  it?  " 

"  The  queen  thinks  as  I  do,  Sire." 

"  Ah  !  "  he  exclaimed  dryly,  with  a  slight  quaver. 

Contradiction  of  human  nature !  This  woman 
whom  he  did  not  love,  whose  distrustful  coldness 
and  clear-sightedness  he  feared,  this  woman  whom 
he  blamed  for  having  treated  him  too  much  as  a 
king  and  harassed  him  by  a  perpetual  recall  to  his 
duties  and  prerogatives,  —  he  was  now  angry  with 
her  for  no  longer  believing  in  him  and  being 
ready  to  abandon  him  for  the  profit  of  their  child. 
He  felt  it,  not  as  a  wound  to  love,  —  one  of  those 
blows  upon  the  heart  that  make  us  cry  aloud,  —  but 
as  the  treachery  of  a  friend,  a  confidence  forever 
lost. 

"  And  you,  Boscovich,  what  do  you  think?  "  he 
said,  suddenly  turning  to  his  councillor,  whose 
smooth  anxious  face  was  convulsively  mimicking 
the  expressions  on  that  of  his  master. 

The   botanist   made  a  slight  gesture  of  Italian 


338  Kings  in  Exile. 

pantomime,  arms  wide  open,  head  in  his  shoulders, 
a  mute  "  chi  lo  sa?"  so  timid,  so  little  compro- 
mising that  the  king  could  not  keep  himself  from 
laughing. 

"  By  advice  of  our  council  be  it  understood,"  he 
said  through  his  nose,  sarcastically,  "  we  will  abdi- 
cate whenever  they  like." 

Thereupon  his  Majesty  began  once  more  to 
push  about  the  balls  with  interest,  to  the  despair  of 
Elysee,  who  was  burning  to  go  and  tell  the  queen 
of  the  result  of  a  negotiation  she  did  not  wish  to 
take  upon  herself;  for  that  phantom  of  a  king  still 
awed  her,  and  it  was  only  in  trembling  that  she  laid 
her  hand  upon  the  crown  which  he  wanted  to  be 
rid  of. 

The  abdication  took  place  soon  after.  Stoically, 
the  head  of  the  civil  and  military  household  pro- 
posed his  splendid  galleries  in  the  hotel  Rosen  for 
the  ceremony,  to  which  it  is  customary  to  give  as 
much  solemnity  and  authenticity  as  possible.  But 
the  disaster  of  Gravosa  was  too  recent  to  use  those 
salons  still  echoing  with  memories  of  the  fete ;  it 
would  indeed  have  been  too  sad,  too  full  of  evil 
omen  for  the  reign  that  was  beginning.  They  con- 
tented themselves  therefore  by  inviting  to  Saint- 
Mande  certain  noble  Illyrian  and  French  person- 
ages whose  signatures  were  necessary  at  the 
bottom  of  a  deed  of  such  importance. 

At  two  o'clock  the  carriages  began  to  arrive, 
and  the  guests,  ascending  slowly  on  the  carpets 
laid  from  the  threshold  to  the  bottom  of  the  steps 
of  the  portico,  were  received  at  the  door  of  the 


A  Solution.  339 

salon  by  the  Due  de  Rosen,  tightly  buttoned  into 
his  general's  uniform,  and  wearing  around  his  neck 
and  above  his  crosses  the  grand  cordon  of  Illyria, 
which  he  had  laid  aside  without  a  word  when  he 
learned  the  scandal  of  the  barber  Biscarat  sporting 
the  same  insignia  on  his  Figaro  jacket.  On  his 
arm  and  on  his  sword-hilt  the  general  bore  a  long 
black  crape ;  but  more  significant  than  even  that 
sign  of  mourning,  was  the  senile  shaking  of  his 
head,  an  unconscious  way  of  ever  saying :  "  No  .  .  . 
no  ..."  which  continued  with  him  after  the  ter- 
rible debate  in  his  presence  about  Herbert's  par- 
don, —  a  debate  in  which  he  positively  refused  to 
take  part,  in  spite  of  Colette's  prayers  and  the 
revolt  of  his  paternal  tenderness.  It  seemed  as 
though  that  small  hawk's-head  of  his,  forever  shak- 
ing, bore  the  penalty  of  his  anti-human  refusal,  and 
that  henceforth  he  was  sentenced  to  say  "  No  "  to 
all  impressions,  all  feelings,  to  life  itself —  all  things 
becoming  nought  to  him,  and  nothing  being  able 
to  interest  his  mind  since  the  tragic  end  of  his 
son. 

Princesse  Colette  was  present,  wearing  with  much 
taste  a  mourning  garb  that  went  well  with  her  fair 
complexion,  —  a  widowhood  relieved  by  a  hope 
already  visible  in  her  heavier  figure  and  slower 
step.  Even  in  the  midst  of  a  grief  that  was  really 
sincere,  that  little  soul  of  a  milliner,  choked  with 
futilities,  to  which  the  severities  of  fate  brought  no 
improvement,  found  something  to  satisfy  it,  thanks 
to  the  coming  infant,  in  a  crowd  of  coquettish  and 
trumpery  vanities.  Ribbons,  laces,  the  superb 


34O  Kings  in  Exile. 

baby's-outfit  which  she  was  having  embroidered 
with  an  initial  beneath  a  prince's  coronet,  served  to 
divert  her  grief.  The  baby  should  be  named 
Wenceslas  or  Witold  —  Wilhelmina  if  a  girl;  but 
very  certainly  the  name  should  begin  with  W, 
because  that  was  a  very  aristocratic  letter,  and 
charming  to  embroider  upon  linen. 

She  was  explaining  her  projects  to  Mme.  de 
Silvis  when  the  doors  were  thrown  wide  open  to 
announce,  preceded  by  a  rattle  of  halberds,  the 
Prince  and  Princesse  de  Trebigne,  de  Soris,  the 
Due  de  San-Giorgio,  the  Duchesse  de  Melida, 
Comtes  Pozzo,  de  Miremont,  de  Veliko.  .  .  Those 
names,  proclaimed  aloud,  seemed  a  sonorous  echo 
from  the  bloody  shore  where  the  young  victims  fell 
who  bore  them.  And,  terrible  to  see !  a  circum- 
stance which  was  to  give  to  the  coming  ceremony, 
in  spite  of  all  precautions,  a  fatal  and  funereal 
aspect,  those  who  came  were  in  the  deepest  mourn- 
ing, clothed  in  black,  gloved  in  black,  swathed  in 
those  black  woollen  stuffs  so  gloomy  to  the  eye, 
which  imprison,  as  it  were,  the  free  motion  and  the 
gestures  of  women :  the  mourning  of  old  people, 
of  fathers,  mothers,  more  mournful,  more  heart- 
breaking, more  cruel  to  bear  than  that  of  others. 
Many  of  these  unhappy  persons  left  their  homes 
that  day  for  the  first  time  since  the  catastrophe ; 
torn  from  their  solitude,  their  seclusion,  by  devotion 
to  the  dynasty.  They  drew  themselves  erect  to 
enter,  summoning  all  their  courage ;  but,  as  they 
looked  on  one  another  —  each  a  dreadful  mirror  of 
a  common  sorrow  —  standing,  with  lowered  heads 


A  Solution.  34! 

and  shuddering  shoulders,  they  felt  the  tears  they 
saw  rise  in  their  eyes,  the  sighs  that  could  not  be 
restrained  beside  them  on  their  lips ;  and  soon  this 
nervous  contagion  seized  them  all  and  filled  the 
salon  with  one  long  sob  of  choking  moans.  Old 
Rosen  alone  did  not  weep :  stiffening  his  tall, 
inflexible  figure  he  continued  to  make  that  pitiless 
sign :  "  No  !  .  .  no  !  .  .  he  must  die  !  .  .  " 

That  evening,  at  the  Cafe  de  Londres,  H.  R.  H. 
Prince  d'Axel,  invited  with  the  rest  to  witness  the 
abdication,  related  how  he  had  been  to  a  funeral  of 
the  first  class,  with  all  the  family  assembled  to  see 
the  corpse  removed.  It  is  true  that  his  Highness 
himself  cut  a  sorry  figure  as  he  entered.  He  felt 
frozen,  hampered  by  such  silence,  such  despair; 
and  he  was  looking  about  with  terror  at  these  old 
Parcae  when  he  spied  the  Princesse  Colette.  He 
hastened  to  seat  himself  beside  her,  curious  to 
study  the  heroine  of  the  famous  breakfast  on  the 
Quai  d'Orsay;  and  while  Colette,  at  heart  much 
flattered  by  this  attention,  greeted  his  Highness 
with  a  doleful  and  sentimental  smile,  she  little 
thought  that  the  veiled  and  glaucous  glance  he 
cast  upon  her  was  taking  mental  measure  of  how 
the  cook-boy's  costume  had  fitted  her  appetizing 
person. 

"  The  king,  messieurs  !  " 

Christian  II.,  very  pale,  with  a  visibly  perturbed 
air,  entered  the  room,  leading  his  son  by  the  hand. 

The  little  prince  showed  a  gravity  enjoined 
upon  him,  which  became  him  well,  increased  as 
it  was  by  the  black  jacket  and  the  trousers  that 


34 2  Kings  in  Exile. 

he  wore  for  the  first  time  with  a  certain  pride  and 
the  serious  grace  of  adolescence. 

The  queen  came  next,  very  beautiful,  in  a  sump- 
tuous mauve  gown  covered  with  lace ;  too  sincere 
to  conceal  her  joy,  which  shone  amid  the  environ- 
ing sadness  like  the  glow  of  her  robe  beside  the 
mourning  garments.  She  was  so  happy,  so  ego- 
tistically happy,  that  she  did  not  bend,  even  for 
a  moment,  to  the  terrible  sorrows  that  surrounded 
her,  any  more  than  she  saw  the  shivering  garden, 
the  fog  at  the  windows,  the  blackness  of  an  All- 
Saints'  season  wandering  in  a  low,  dull  sky  full  of 
mists  and  torpor. 

This  day  was  to  stay  in  her  memory,  luminous 
and  comforting.  So  true  is  it  that  all  is  within 
us ;  and  that  the  external  world  is  transformed 
and  coloured  by  the  thousand  tints  of  our  own 
passions. 

Christian  II.  placed  himself  in  front  of  the  fire- 
place at  the  centre  of  the  salon,  having  the  Comte 
de  Zara  on  his  right,  the  queen  on  his  left,  while 
a  little  farther  off  sat  Boscovich,  in  his  ermine  as 
Aulic  councillor,  at  a  small  clerk's-table.  When 
all  were  placed,  the  king,  speaking  very  low,  said 
that  he  was  now  prepared  to  sign  his  abdication 
and  to  make  known  the  reasons  for  it  to  his 
subjects.  Then  Boscovich  rose,  and  in  his  sharp, 
stuttering  little  voice  proceeded  to  read  Christian's 
manifesto  to  the  nation,  a  rapid  historical  review 
of  the  early  hopes  of  the  reign,  the  deceptions,  the 
misunderstandings  that  soon  followed,  and  finally 
the  resolution  of  the  king  to  retire  from  public 


A  Solution.  343 

affairs  and  confide  his  son  to  the  generosity  of  the 
Illyrian  people. 

This  short  epistle,  in  which  the  hand  of  filyse"e 
Meraut  had  left  its  mark,  was  so  ill-read,  like  a 
wearisome  botanical  nomenclature,  that  it  gave 
reflection  time  to  see  all  there  was  of  futile  and 
derisory  in  this  abdication  of  an  exiled  prince,  this 
transmission  of  powers  that  did  not  exist,  of  rights 
denied  and  ignored.  The  act  of  abdication,  read 
by  the  king  himself,  was  as  follows :  — 

"  I,  Christian  II.,  King  of  Illyria  and  Dalmatia, 
Grand-duke  of  Bosnia  and  Herzegovina,  etc.  .  . 
etc.  .  .  declare  that  of  my  own  will,  and  without 
yielding  to  any  foreign  influence,  I  leave  and 
convey  to  my  son,  Charles-Alexis-Leopold,  Comte 
de  Goetz  and  de  Zara,  all  my  political  rights, 
meaning  thereby  to  retain  none  but  my  civil 
rights  as  father  and  guardian  over  him." 

Immediately,  at  a  sign  from  the  Due  de  Rosen, 
all  present  approached  the  table  to  affix  their  sig- 
natures. For  a  few  moments  there  was  move- 
ment, the  rustling  of  stuffs,  pauses  caused  by  the 
ceremonial,  and  the  scratching  of  pens,  firm  or 
trembling.  Then  the  homage,  the  kissing  of  the 
new  king's  hand  began. 

Christian  II.  led  the  way,  and  acquitted  himself 
of  that  difficult  thing,  the  homage  of  a  father  to 
his  child,  by  kissing  the  tips  of  the  fragile  fingers 
with  more  of  airy  grace  than  of  respect.  The 
queen,  on  the  contrary,  showed  a  passionate  effu- 
sion almost  religious ;  the  protectress,  the  brood- 
ing mother,  became  the  humble  subject.  After 


344  Kings  in  Exile. 

her  came  the  turn  of  Prince  d'Axel,  and  then,  all 
the  great  seigneurs  defiled  in  hierarchical  order, 
which  the  little  king  was  beginning  to  think  very 
long,  in  spite  of  the  charming  dignity  of  his  inno- 
cent eyes  and  of  his  outstretched  hand,  that  little 
hand,  so  white  and  veined,  with  the  square  nails 
of  a  child  who  still  plays  about,  and  with  wrists 
that  were  rather  strong  and  disproportioned  to  his 
growth.  All  these  nobles,  solemn  as  this  moment 
seemed  to  them,  and  in  spite  of  the  sad  preoccu- 
pations of  their  personal  sorrow,  were  not  men  to 
allow  their  precedence,  according  to  title  and  the 
number  of  leaves  on  their  coronet,  to  be  taken 
from  them ;  and  Meraut,  who  was  rushing  towards 
his  pupil,  was  suddenly  stopped  by  a  "  Monsieur, 
by  your  leave  .  .  ."  which  made  him  step  back  and 
brought  him  face  to  face  with  the  indignant  coun- 
tenance of  the  Prince  de  Trebigne,  a  terribly  asth- 
matic old  gentleman,  puffing  with  difficulty,  his 
dilated  eyes  protruding  as  if  he  was  unable  to 
breathe  except  through  them,  filysee,  the  devotee 
of  tradition,  drew  respectfully  back  to  allow  this 
relic  from  the  tombs  to  pass,  and  went  himself 
the  last  man  to  do  homage.  As  he  retired,  Fre- 
derica,  standing  beside  her  son,  like  the  mothers  of 
young  brides  in  the  sacristies,  to  receive  the  after 
smiles  and  homage,  said  to  him  in  a  low  voice,  but 
exultant  and  vigorous,  as  he  passed :  — 

"  It  is  done  !  " 

There  was  in  her  intonation  a  plenitude  of  joy 
that  was  almost  ferocious,  a  relief  and  comfort 
unspeakable. 


A  Solution.  345 

It  is  done !  .  .  That  is,  the  crown  is  safe  at  last 
from  traffic  and  degradation ;  she  could  sleep,  and 
breathe,  and  live,  delivered  from  continual  terrors 
which  warned  her  of  catastrophes  and  might  have 
made  her  say,  like  Hezeta,  at  each  fatal  result : 
"  I  expected  it.  .  ."  Her  son  would  not  be  de- 
throned ;  her  son  would  be  king.  .  .  Why,  he  was 
so  already  in  his  majestic  little  attitude,  his  cour- 
teous yet  lofty  greeting.  .  . 

However,  no  sooner  was  the  ceremony  over 
than  the  nature  of  a  child  came  uppermost,  and 
Leopold  V.  darted  joyfully  to  old  Comte  Jean  de 
Veliko  to  announce  to  him  a  great  piece  of  news : 
"  Do  you  know,  godpapa,  I  have  a  pony  ...  a 
pretty  little  pony,  all  for  myself.  .  .  The  general 
is  to  teach  me  to  ride,  and  mamma,  too."  Around 
him  the  Court  pressed  and  bowed  with  looks  of 
adoration,  while  Christian,  left  rather  alone  and 
abandoned,  felt  a  singular,  indefinable  sensation 
like  the  taking  of  something  from  his  skull,  the 
chill  of  an  absent  crown.  Positively  his  head  was 
swimming,  and  yet  he  had  certainly  desired  this 
hour,  and  cursed,  above  all,  the  responsibilities  of 
his  position.  Then  why  this  uncomfortable  feel- 
ing, this  sadness,  now  that  he  saw  the  shore  he 
hated  disappear,  and  the  way  at  last  open  to 
other  prospects? 

"  Well,  my  poor  Christian,  I  think  they  have 
given  you  your  ouistiti.  .  ." 

This  from  Prince  d'Axel,  who,  in  a  whisper,  con- 
soled him  after  his  fashion. 

"  You  have  the  luck  of  it,"  he  went  on.  .  .     "I 


346  Kings  in  Exile. 

wish  it  were  I.  .  .  How  happy  I  should  be  if  some 
one  released  me  from  leaving  this  charming  Paris 
and  going  to  reign  over  those  walruses  of  mine, 
with  their  white  stomachs !  .  ." 

He  continued  in  the  same  tone  for  a  few  mo- 
ments and  then  the  pair,  profiting  by  the  tumult 
and  the  inattention  of  the  company,  disappeared. 
The  queen  saw  them  go ;  she  heard  in  the  court- 
yard the  roll  of  the  king's  phaeton,  the  light  wheels 
of  which  had  never  before  departed  without  pass- 
ing over  her  heart.  .  .  What  mattered  it  now? 
It  was  no  longer  the  King  of  Illyria  that  those 
women  of  Paris  were  taking  from  her.  .  . 

On  the  morrow  of  Gravosa,  in  the  first  mo- 
ments of  his  shame,  Christian  had  sworn  to  him- 
self that  he  would  never  see  Sephora  again.  As 
long  as  he  was  in  bed,  frightened  by  illness  like 
every  Southerner,  he  thought  of  his  mistress  only 
to  curse  her,  to  charge  her  morally  with  his  own 
misdeeds;  but  convalescence,  the  quickening  of 
his  blood,  the  complete  idleness  in  which  memo- 
ries mingled  with  dreams  have  so  much  power, 
changed  before  long  these  dispositions.  At  first 
he  excused  the  woman  timidly ;  he  began  to  look 
on  what  had  happened  as  fatality,  one  of  the 
myriad  designs  of  Providence  on  whom  Catholics 
are  prone  to  lay  all  oppressive  responsibility. 

At  last,  one  day  he  ventured  to  ask  Lebeau  if 
there  was  any  news  of  the  countess.  For  all  an- 
swer the  valet  brought  him  a  quantity  of  little 
notes,  which  had  arrived  during  his  illness,  tender, 


A  Solution.  347 

passionate,  timid  notes,  a  flock  of  white  turtle- 
doves warbling  love. 

Christian's  senses  were  at  once  inflamed ;  he 
answered  from  his  bed  immediately,  impatient 
to  resume,  the  instant  he  was  cured,  the  romance 
begun  at  Fontainebleau. 

Meanwhile  J.  Tom  Levis  and  his  wife  were 
spending  a  delightful  holiday  in  their  mansion 
on  the  Avenue  de  Messine.  Tom  had  been  un- 
able to  bear  any  longer  the  weary  dulness  of  his 
retreat  to  Courbevoie.  He  missed  his  business 
life,  but,  above  all,  he  missed  Sephora's  admira- 
tion. Moreover  he  was  jealous,  with  a  stupid, 
obstinate,  lancinating  jealousy,  like  a  fish-bone  in 
one's  throat,  which  we  think  gone  and  lo,  we  sud- 
denly feel  its  prick.  And  no  means  of  complain- 
ing to  any  one  and  saying:  "Just  see  what  I 
have  got  in  my  throat."  Unfortunate  Tom  Levis, 
caught  in  his  own  trap,  inventor  and  victim  of  the 
Grand-Stroke.  .  .  Sephora's  journey  to  Fontaine- 
bleau made  him  specially  uneasy.  Several  times 
he  tried  to  recur  to  the  subject,  but  she  always 
stopped  him  with  such  a  natural  peal  of  laughter. 
"  What 's  the  matter  with  you,  my  poor  Tom?  .  . 
Where  '$  your  head-piece  ?  .  ."  On  which  he  was 
obliged  to  laugh,  he  too ;  understanding  per- 
fectly well  that  there  was  nothing  between  them 
but  drollery  and  blague,  and  that  Sephora's  fancy 
for  her  merry-andrew  would  quickly  cease  if  she 
thought  him  jealous,  sentimental,  —  "a  nuisance," 
like  others. 

But  at  heart  he  suffered,  and  wearied   of  living 


34-8  Kings  in  Exile. 

away  from  her;  he  even  wrote  verses  to  her. 
Yes,  the  man  of  the  cab,  the  imaginative  Nar- 
cisse,  had  found  that  vent  for  his  uneasiness,  a 
poem  to  Sephora !  one  of  those  whimsical  lucu- 
brations composed  by  pretentious  ignorance,  such 
as  are  confiscated  at  Mazas  in  the  cells  of  the 
prisoners.  Truly,  if  Christian  II.  had  not  fallen  ill, 
J.  Tom  Levis  would  certainly  have  become  so. 

I  leave  you  to  think  of  the  joy  with  which  the 
buffoon  and  his  wife  met  again  and  lived  together 
for  several  weeks.  Tom  danced  crazy  jigs  and  cut 
pigeon-wings  on  the  carpet,  like  a  monkey  in  good 
humour  or  an  Auriol  let  loose  to  caper  through  the 
house.  Sephora  was  contorted  with  laughter,  and 
yet  a  little  troubled  by  the  kitchen  department, 
where  the  "husband  of  madame"  enjoyed  the 
most  thorough  discredit.  The  butler  declared 
that  if  the  "  husband  of  madame  "  dined  at  table 
he  would  never  consent  to  wait  upon  him ;  and  as 
the  man  was  an  exceptional  butler,  chosen  by  the 
king,  she  did  not  insist,  but  had  the  meals  taken  up 
to  her  boudoir  by  a  maid.  In  like  manner,  when 
a  visitor  arrived,  Wattelet  or  Prince  d'Axel,  J.  Tom 
disappeared  into  the  dressing-room.  Never  was 
husband  seen  in  such  a  case ;  but  Tom  adored  his 
wife ;  he  had  her  for  himself  alone,  and  in  a  frame 
which  made  her  seem  to  him  infinitely  handsomer. 
He  was  in  fact  the  happiest  of  that  band  of  rascals, 
among  whom  delays  and  postponements  were  be- 
ginning to  cast  a  certain  anxiety. 

A  knot  was  felt,  a  stoppage  in  an  affair  well 
launched.  The  king  did  not  pay  a  penny  on  the 


A  Solution.  349 

notes  already  due,  but  was  making  more  inces- 
santly, to  the  great  terror  of  Pichery  and  Pere 
Leemans.  Lebeau  endeavoured  to  encourage  them. 
"  Patience,  patience  ...  it  will  all  come  right.  .  . 
It  is  on  the  cards.  .  ."  But  he  was  paying  nothing, 
while  the  other  two  were  piling  up  in  their  desks 
reams  of  Illyrian  paper.  The  poor  "  pere,"  no 
longer  possessed  of  his  sturdy  composure,  came 
every  morning  to  the  Avenue  de  Messine  to  ob- 
tain reassurance  from  his  daughter  and  son-in-law. 
"  Then  you  really  think  we  shall  succeed  ?  .  ."  And 
he  resigned  himself  to  discount  again,  to  discount 
continually,  inasmuch  as  the  only  way  to  run  after 
his  money  was  to  send  more  in  pursuit. 

One  afternoon  the  countess,  making  ready  to  go 
to  the  Bois,  was  flitting  from  her  chamber  to  her 
dressing-room  beneath  the  paternal  eye  of  J.  Tom, 
who  was  sprawling  on  a  chaise-longue,  a  cigar  be- 
tween his  teeth,  his  fingers  in  the  armholes  of  his 
waistcoat,  enjoying  the  pretty  sight  of  a  woman 
dressing  herself,  slipping  on  her  gloves  before  the 
psyche,  and  practising  her  attitudes.  She  was 
ravishing.  Her  hat  was  put  on,  the  veil  just  reach- 
ing the  eyes,  her  costume,  that  of  the  late  autumn, 
warm  and  a  trifle  wadded ;  while  the  tinkling  of 
her  bracelets  and  the  shimmering  jet  of  her  mantle 
responded  to  the  luxurious  sounds  of  the  carriage 
waiting  beneath  the  windows,  to  the  rattle  of  its 
harness,  the  pawing  of  its  horses,  —  the  whole 
together  forming  an  equipment  under  the  arms  of 
Illyria. 

Sephora  was  going  out  with  Tom ;   she  was  tak- 


350  Kings  in  Exile. 

ing  him  for  a  drive  on  this  first  day  of  the  Parisian 
season,  round  the  lake,  under  a  low  sky  which 
gives  full  value  to  the  new  fashions  and  the  pretty 
faces,  rested  by  country  sojourns.  Tom,  very 
elegant,  of  a  true  British  chic,  was  enchanted 
with  this  prospect  of  a  drive  in  a  coupe,  effaced 
behind  his  charming  countess,  on  secret  pleasure 
bent. 

Madame  was  ready;  they  were  just  about  to 
start.  A  last  look  in  the  glass.  .  .  Come !  .  . 
Suddenly  the  entrance  gate  opened  below,  and 
the  bell  rang  hurriedly.  .  .  "  The  king !  .  ."  And 
while  the  husband  rushed  into  the  dressing-room, 
with  a  terrible  squinting  of  his  eyes,  Sephora  ran  to 
the  window  just  in  time  to  see  Christian  II.  mount- 
ing the  portico  with  a  conquering  air.  He  flew, 
wings  expanded.  "  How  happy  she  will  be  !  "  he 
thought  as  he  mounted. 

Sephora  comprehended  that  something  new  had 
happened,  and  prepared  herself.  To  begin  with, 
she  gave  a  little  cry  of  surprise,  of  joyful  emotion 
on  seeing  him,  fell  into  his  arms,  and  made  him 
carry  her  to  a  sofa,  before  which  he  knelt. 

"  Yes,  Li.     Really  I  ...  and  forever !  " 

She  looked  at  him  with  wide-opened  eyes,  wild 
with  love  and  hope.  And  he,  plunged  in  that  look, 
replied  to  it :  — 

"  Yes,  't  is  done.  .  .  I  am  no  longer  King  of 
Illyria.  .  .  Only  a  man  who  will  spend  his  life  in 
loving  you." 

"  It  is  too  good.  .  .     I  dare  not  believe  it." 

"  Here,  read.  .  ." 


A  Solution. 


351 


She  took  a  parchment  from  his  hand,  and  slowly 
unfolded  it. 

"  And  so,  is  it  really  true,  my  Christian,  that  you 
have  renounced  —  " 

"  Better  than  that.  .  ." 

And  while  she  read  through  the  words  of  the  act, 
he,  standing  before  her,  twirled  his  moustache  and 
gazed  at  her  triumphantly.  Then,  thinking  she  did 
not  understand,  or  at  least  not  quickly  enough,  he 
explained  the  difference  between  renunciation  and 
abdication;  he  would  be  just  as  free,  he  told  her, 
as  much  relieved  of  duties  and  responsibilities, 
without  doing  injury  to  the  interests  of  his  son. 
Only  the  money.  .  .  But  they  did  not  need  so 
many  millions  to  make  them  happy. 

She  read  no  more ;  she  listened,  her  mouth  half- 
opened,  her  pretty  teeth  exposed  in  a  fixed  smile 
as  if  she  wanted  them  to  seize  what  he  was  saying. 
She  had  fully  understood,  however ;  oh !  yes,  she 
saw  plainly  enough  the  crumbling  away  of  their 
ambitions  and  of  the  piles  of  gold  already  spent 
on  the  affair;  she  saw  the  fury  of  Leemans,  of 
Pichery,  of  all  that  band  robbed  by  the  false 
manoeuvre  of  this  ninny.  She  thought  of  the  use- 
less sacrifices,  of  her  six  months'  wearisome  life, 
sickened  with  insipidity  and  perpetual  dissimula- 
tion, of  her  poor  Tom,  now  engaged  in  holding  his 
breath  in  the  next  room,  while  the  other  before 
her  was  expecting  an  explosion  of  tenderness,  sure 
of  being  loved,  a  conqueror,  irresistible,  all-power- 
ful. .  .  It  was  so  droll,  the  irony  was  so  complete, 
so  fierce !  She  rose,  seized  with  a  frantic  laugh, 


352  Kings  in  Exile. 

an  insolent,  scoffing  laugh,  which  brought  into  her 
face  a  sudden  redness,  the  stirred-up  lees  of  her 
coarse  nature,  and  passing  in  front  of  the  stupefied 
Christian,  "  Idiot,  begone ! "  she  cried  to  him 
before  she  bolted  herself  into  her  chamber. 

Without  a  sou,  without  crown,  without  wife, 
without  mistress,  he  cut  a  sorry  figure  as  he  went 
down  that  staircase. 


The  Little  King.  353 


XV. 

THE   LITTLE   KING. 

OH,  magic  of  words  !  As  if  in  those  four  letters 
of  the  word  "  king "  lay  a  force  cabalistic,  he 
no  sooner  ceased  to  be  called  the  Comte  de  Zara 
and  bore  the  name  of  King  Leopold  V.  than 
Meraut's  pupil  was  transformed.  The  patient  little 
boy,  pleased  in  doing  well,  easy  to  handle  as  a  bit 
of  soft  wax,  but  without  any  striking  intelligence, 
came  suddenly  out  of  his  limbo,  awakened  by  a 
strange  and  excessive  excitement,  and  his  body 
was  strengthened  by  the  inward  flame.  His  indo- 
lence of  nature,  that  desire  to  lie  down  or  to  loll  in 
an  arm-chair  while  they  read  to  him  or  told  him 
stories,  that  need  to  listen,  to  live  by  the  thoughts 
of  others,  changed  suddenly  into  an  activity  that 
was  not  satisfied  with  the  ordinary  amusements  of 
his  years.  Old  General  de  Rosen,  now  becoming 
bent  and  infirm,  was  forced  to  recover  strength 
enough  to  give  him  his  first  fencing  and  shooting 
and  riding  lessons.  Nothing  could  be  more  touch- 
ing than  to  see,  every  morning  at  nine  o'clock,  in 
a  clearing  of  the  park  enlarged  to  an  arena,  the 
old  pandour,  in  a  blue  coat,  whip  in  hand,  per- 
forming his  functions  of  equerry  with  the  air  of  an 
old  Franconi ;  .always  respectful  to  his  king  while 

23 


354  Kings  in  Exile. 

correcting  the  blunders  of  the  pupil.  The  little 
monarch  trotted  and  galloped,  grave  and  proud, 
attentive  to  the  slightest  order,  while  the  queen 
looked  on  and  made  observations  or  gave  her 
advice :  "  Sit  straight,  Sire  .  .  .  easy  on  the  bit." 
Sometimes,  to  make  him  understand  her  better, 
she  would  spring  into  the  circle  and  add  gesture 
to  words.  Ah !  how  happy  she  was  on  the  day 
when,  regulating  the  step  of  her  mare  to  that  of 
the  king's  pony,  the  pair  rode  together  through 
the  wood,  the  child's  silhouette  against  the  dark 
habit  of  the  horsewoman,  who,  far  from  feeling  a 
mother's  fears,  started  the  two  animals  in  a  vigor- 
ous gallop,  and  showing  the  way  to  her  son,  went 
as  far  as  Joinville  without  drawing  rein. 

And  in  her  also  a  great  change  had  taken  place 
since  the  abdication.  For  a  woman  superstitious 
of  divine  right  the  title  of  king  henceforth  pro- 
tected the  child,  defended  him.  Her  tenderness, 
always  strong  and  deep,  no  longer  had  outward 
manifestations,  explosions  of  caresses;  and  when 
at  night  she  went,  as  she  always  did,  to  his  room, 
it  was  not  "  to  see  Zara  put  to  bed."  A  valet  had 
charge  of  such  matters  now,  as  if  Frederica  feared 
to  enervate  her  son,  to  retard  the  coming  of  a  manly 
will  by  keeping  him  longer  in  her  too  gentle  hands. 
She  came  solely  to  hear  him  say  that  beautiful 
prayer  from  the  "  Book  of  Kings "  which  Pere 
Alphee  had  taught  him :  — 

"  O  Lord,  who  art  my  God,  thou  hast  placed  thy 
servant  on  a  throne ;  but  I  am  a  child  who  knows 
not  how  to  act,  and  yet  I  am  intrusted  with  the 


The  Little  King.  355 

people  thou  hast  chosen.     Give  me  therefore  wis- 
dom and  intelligence.  .  .  " 

The  little  voice  rose  firm  and  clear,  toned  with 
authority,  with  a  conviction  most  affecting  if  one 
thinks  of  the  exile  in  this  poor  suburb,  and  the 
distance,  far  over  sea  and  land,  of  this  hypothetic 
throne.  But  for  Frederica  her  Leopold  now 
reigned,  and  she  put  into  her  good-night  kiss  a 
proud  subjection,  an  adoration,  an  indefinable 
respect,  which  recalled  to  Elysee,  when  he  saw  this 
mixture  of  maternal  sentiments,  the  Christmas 
carols  of  his  native  country  in  which  the  Virgin 
sings  as  she  rocks  her  infant  in  the  stable :  "  I  am 
thy  servant,  and  thou  art  my  God." 

Some  months  went  by  in  this  way,  —  a  whole 
winter  season,  during  which  the  queen  was  con- 
scious of  one  shadow  only  on  her  joy,  on  her 
heaven,  now  so  clear.  And  it  was  Meraut  who, 
most  unconsciously,  was  the  cause  of  it.  In 
dreaming  both  of  them  the  same  dream,  in  min- 
gling their  glances  and  their  souls,  in  walking 
together  closely  bound  to  the  same  single  end,  a 
familiarity  was  established  between  them,  a  com- 
munity of  thought  and  life  which  suddenly  became 
embarrassing  to  Frederica  without  her  being  able 
to  say  why.  When  alone  with  him  she  ceased  to 
give  expression  to  herself  as  before ;  she  grew  to 
be  afraid  of  the  place  this  stranger  was  taking  in 
her  most  private  decisions.  Did  she  divine  the 
feelings  in  his  breast,  that  brooding  ardour  so  near 
to  her,  closer  and  more  dangerous  from  day  to 
day?  A  woman  never  mistakes  such  feelings. 


356  Kings  in  Exile. 

She  wanted  to  protect  herself,  to  change  her 
course  ;  but  how?  In  her  trouble  she  had  recourse 
to  the  guide,  the  adviser  of  the  Catholic  wife,  to  her 
confessor. 

When  he  was  not  roaming  the  country  on  his 
royalist  propaganda  it  was  Pere  Alphee  who 
directed  the  queen.  Merely  to  look  at  the  man 
was  to  know  him.  In  this  Illyrian  priest  with  the 
face  of  a  pirate  could  be  seen  the  blood,  the  gait, 
the  facial  lines  of  one  of  those  Uscoques,  birds  of 
rapine  and  of  storms,  the  former  rovers  of  the 
Latin  seas.  Son  of  a  fisherman  in  the  port  of 
Zara,  brought  up  on  the  Marina  amid  trawls  and 
tar,  he  was  picked  up  on  a  certain  day  by  the 
Franciscans  on  account  of  his  pretty  voice ;  from 
house-boy  he  became  a  choir-boy,  grew  up  in  the 
convent,  and  was  finally  one  of  the  heads  of  the 
brotherhood ;  but  there  always  remained  to  him 
the  passions  of  a  sailor,  and  on  his  epidermis  the 
tan  of  the  sea,  which  the  coolness  of  cloistral  stones 
could  never  whiten.  For,  the  rest,  not  the  least 
bigoted  or  scrupulous;  able  on  occasion  to  play 
his  knife  {cotellata)  for  the  good  motive ;  a  monk 
who,  when  State  affairs  pressed,  would  despatch  in 
a  bunch  in  early  morning  all  the  prayers  of  the 
day,  and  even  those  of  the  morrow,  "  in  order  to 
get  on,"  as  he  said  seriously.  Thorough  in  his 
affections  as  in  his  hatreds,  he  had  vowed  an  un- 
bounded admiration  to  the  tutor  introduced  by 
him  into  the  household  of  the  king.  Therefore  at 
the  first  avowal  that  the  queen  made  of  her  trouble, 
her  scruples,  he  pretended  not  to  understand  her ; 


The  Little  King.  357 

then,  as  she  insisted,  he  grew  angry,  spoke  harshly 
to  her  as  to  an  ordinary  penitent,  or  some  rich 
milliner  of  Ragusa. 

Was  she  not  ashamed  to  bring  such  nonsense 
into  a  noble  cause?  What  was  she  complaining 
of?  Had  he  ever  failed  in  respect  to  her?  Just 
see  how  for  such  ticklish  piety,  or  for  the  coquetry 
of  a  woman  who  thinks  herself  irresistible,  they 
were  to  deprive  themselves  of  a  man  whom  God 
had  certainly  put  in  their  path  for  the  triumph 
of  monarchy !  .  .  And  in  his  sailor  language,  his 
Italian  vehemence,  tempered  by  the  sly  smile  of  a 
priest,  he  added  that  people  should  n't  cavil  with 
the  good  wind  sent  by  heaven,  but  "  spread  all  sail 
and  take  advantage  of  it."  The  most  upright  of 
women  are  ever  feeble  before  specious  reasoning. 
Conquered  by  the  monk's  casuistry,  Frederica  told 
herself  that  indeed  she  ought  not  to  deprive  her 
son's  cause  of  such  an  auxiliary.  It  was  for  her  to 
protect  herself,  to  be  strong.  After  all,  what  did 
she  risk?  She  even  ended  by  persuading  herself 
that  she  had  been  mistaken  as  to  filysee's  devotion 
and  his  enthusiastic  friendship.  .  . 

The  truth  was  that  he  loved  her  passionately.  A 
strange,  deep  love ;  driven  out  again  and  yet  again, 
but  returning  slowly  along  by-ways,  until  finally  it 
became  installed  with  the  invading  despotism  of 
conquest.  Until  then  Elyse"e  Meraut  had  believed 
himself  incapable  of  a  tender  sentiment.  Some- 
times, during  his  royalist  propaganda  through  "  the 
Quarter,"  some  daughter  of  bohemia,  without 
understanding  a  word  that  he  said,  had  fallen  in 


358  Kings  in  Exile. 

love  with  him  for  the  music  of  his  voice  and  that 
which  shone  in  his  glowing  eyes  and  his  ideal  brow, 
—  the  magnetic  attraction  of  Magdalens  towards 
apostles.  He,  bending  with  a  smile,  gathered 
what  was  offered,  enveloping  in  gentleness  and 
surface  affability  that  incorrigible  contempt  for 
womanhood  which  lies  at  the  bottom  of  every 
Meridional.  In  order  for  love  to  enter  his  heart  it 
had  to  pass  through  his  powerful  brain ;  and  it  was 
in  this  way  that  his  admiration  for  the  lofty  type  of 
Frederica,  for  that  patrician  adversity  so  proudly 
borne,  became  at  last  —  through  the  narrowed  life 
of  exile,  communion  at  all  hours,  at  all  instants,  so 
many  sorrows  shared  —  a  true  passion,  but  a  hum- 
ble, discreet  passion,  without  hope,  content  to  burn 
at  a  distance,  like  the  tapers  of  the  poor  on  the 
lowest  step  of  the  altar. 

Existence  went  on,  however,  always  the  same 
in  appearance,  indifferent  to  these  mute  dramas, 
until  the  beginning  of  the  month  of  Septem- 
ber. One  day  the  queen,  bathed  in  a  beautiful 
sunshine,  that  was  brightly  in  keeping  with  her 
happy  disposition  of  mind,  was  taking  her  walk 
after  breakfast,  followed  by  the  duke,  filys6e,  and 
Mme.  de  Silvis,  to  whom  a  leave  of  absence  granted 
to  Princesse  Colette  had  given  the  duties  of  lady 
of  honour.  Frederica  led  her  little  Court  through 
the  shady  paths,  draped  with  ivy,  of  the  English 
park,  turning  constantly  as  she  walked  along  to 
say  some  word  or  some  remark  with  that  decided 
manner  which  did  not  lessen  in  any  way  her  femi- 
nine charm.  On  this  occasion  she  was  particu- 


The  Little  King.  359 

larly  gay  and  animated.  News  had  come  that 
morning  from  Illyria  relating  the  excellent  effect 
produced  by  the  abdication,  the  name  of  Leopold 
V.  being  already  popular  in  the  country-places. 
Elysee  Meraut  was  triumphant. 

"  Did  not  I  tell  you,  Monsieur  le  due,  that  they 
would  actually  dote  on  their  little  king?  .  .  Child- 
hood, don't  you  see,  regenerates  tenderness.  It  is 
something  like  a  new  religion  that  we  have  infused 
down  there,  with  its  naivetes,  its  fervours.  .  ." 

And  lifting  his  mass  of  hair  with  a  violent 
gesture  of  both  hands  that  was  all  his  own,  he 
launched  into  one  of  those  eloquent  improvisations 
which  transfigured  him,  just  as  the  sluggish  Arab 
squatting  in  rags  upon  the  ground  becomes  unrec- 
ognizable on  horseback. 

"  We  are  in  for  it  .  .  ."  said  the  marquise  in  a  low 
voice  with  a  weary  air,  while  the  queen,  in  order  to 
hear  better,  sat  down  on  a  bench  beside  the  path 
under  the  shadow  of  a  drooping  ash.  The  others 
stood  respectfully  around  her;  but  little  by  little 
the  audience  evaporated.  Mme.  de  Silvis  was  the 
first  to  retire,  to  protest  visibly,  as  she  never  failed 
to  do  when  occasion  offered ;  and  the  duke  was 
sent  for,  to  attend  to  some  duty.  The  queen  and 
Elysee  were  left  alone,  but  the  latter  did  not  per- 
ceive it.  He  continued  his  discourse,  standing  in 
the  sunshine  which  glided  across  his  noble,  inspired 
face,  as  if  on  the  surface  of  a  smooth  stone.  At 
that  moment  he  was  beautiful,  —  with  the  beauty  of 
intellect,  grasping,  irresistible ;  it  struck  Frederica 
too  suddenly  to  allow  her  to  hide  her  admiration. 


360  Kings  in  Exile. 

Did  he  see  it  in  her  green-gray  eyes?  Received 
he  in  return  that  inward  concussion  which  too  keen 
a  sentiment  and  very  near  us  makes  us  feel  ?  He 
stammered,  stopped  short,  panting,  and  laid  upon 
the  queen,  on  her  hair,  all  spangled  with  the 
trembling  light,  a  slow  look,  burning  as  a  confes- 
sion. .  ,  Frederica  felt  the  flame  of  it  run  through 
her  like  a  sun,  more  blinding  than  that  in  the 
heavens,  but  she  had  no  strength  to  turn  away. 
And  when  Elysee,  terrified  at  the  words  that  were 
rising  to  his  lips,  tore  himself  from  her  brusquely, 
it  seemed  to  her,  all  penetrated  as  she  was  with 
that  man,  with  his  magnetic  power,  as  if  life  itself 
had  left  her.  A  sort  of  moral  swoon  overcame 
her,  and  she  sat  there,  on  that  bench,  half-fainting, 
prostrate.  .  .  Lilac  shadows  flitted  on  the  gravel 
of  the  path.  Water  was  rippling  in  the  fountains 
like  a  refreshment  to  the  summer  afternoon. 
Nothing  was  heard  in  the  garden,  all  blossoms,  but 
a  murmur  of  insects'  wings  above  the  fragrant  beds, 
and  the  sharp  sound  of  a  rifle,  that  of  the  little 
king,  whose  shooting-ground  was  not  far  off,  at  the 
end  of  the  park,  near  the  wood. 

Amid  this  calmness  the  queen  recovered  herself, 
at  first  with  an  impulse  of  anger,  of  revolt.  She 
felt  insulted,  outraged  by  that  look.  .  .  Was  it 
possible?  Had  she  not  dreamed  it?  .  .  She,  the 
proud  Frederica,  who,  in  the  dazzle  of  court-fetes 
disdained  all  homage  at  her  feet,  that  of  the 
noblest,  that  of  the-  most  illustrious,  she  who  held/ 
so  high  her  lofty  heart,  had  she  abandoned  it  to  a 
man  who  was  nothing,  to  a  son  of  the  people? 


The  Little  King.  361 

Tears  of  pride  burned  in  her  eyes.  And  in  the 
tumult  of  her  ideas  a  prophetic  word  of  old  Rosen 
sounded  again,  quite  low,  in  her  ears :  "  The 
bohemia  of  exile.  .  ."  Yes,  exile  alone  with  its 
dishonouring  promiscuousness  could  have  enabled 
this  subaltern  .  .  .  But,  as  she  loaded  him  with  her 
contempt,  her  disdain,  the  memory  of  his  services 
assailed  her.  What  would  have  become  of  them 
without  him?  She  recalled  the  emotion  of  their 
first  meeting,  and  how  she  had  felt  herself  live 
again  as  she  listened  to  his  cry.  Since  then,  while 
the  king  pursued  his  pleasures,  who  had  taken 
thought  for  their  fate,  repaired  wrong-doing,  de- 
feated crime?  And  this  unwearying  devotion  of 
day  by  day,  so  much  talent,  such  fire  and  spirit,  all 
that  noble  genius  applied  to  a  task  of  abnegation, 
without  profit,  without  glory!  The  result?  was  it 
not  the  king,  the  little  king,  truly  a  king,  of  whom 
she  was  so  proud,  the  future  master  of  Illyria?  .  . 
Then,  seized  with  an  unconquerable  rush  of  ten- 
derness, of  gratitude,  recalling  from  the  past  that 
minute  at  the  fair  at  Vincennes  when  she  had 
leaned  upon  Elysee's  strength,  the  queen  again,  as 
on  that  day,  closed  her  eyes  and  gave  herself 
delightfully  in  thought  to  that  grand  devoted  heart 
that  seemed  to  beat  beside  her. 

Suddenly  a  shot  rang  out  which  startled  the 
birds  in  the  foliage ;  and  a  great  cry,  one  of  those 
piercing  child-cries  that  mothers  hear  in  dreams  on 
troubled,  anxious  nights,  a  terrible  appeal  of  an- 
guish, darkened  the  sky,  enlarged,  transformed  the 
garden  to  the  measure  of  some  vast  sorrow.  Hur- 


362  Kings  in  Exile. 

ried  steps  were  heard  in  the  paths ;  the  voice  of 
the  tutor,  hoarse,  changed,  called  from  the  target. 
Frederica  was  there  at  a  bound. 

It  stood  in  a  green  dusk  of  hornbeam  at  a  corner 
of  the  park  carpeted  with  hops  and  gourds  and 
rather  rank  grass.  Boards  were  hanging  on  a 
trellis  pierced  with  little  holes  in  regular  lines. 
She  saw  her  child  on  the  ground,  on  his  back, 
motionless,  his  face  white,  but  red  around  the  right 
eye,  wounded  and  closed,  from  which  a  few  drops 
of  blood  were  falling,  like  tears,  filysee,  on  his 
knees  beside  him,  was  wringing  his  arms  and  cry- 
ing: "I  did  it.  .  .  I  did  it!  .  ."  He  was  passing; 
Monseigneur  asked  him  to  try  his  gun,  and,  by 
some  awful  fatality,  the  bullet,  ricochetting  on  the 
iron  of  the  trellis  ....  But  the  queen  was  not 
listening  to  him.  Without  a  cry,  without  a  groan, 
wholly  absorbed  in  the  mother's  instinct,  the  sav- 
ing instinct,  she  caught  up  the  child  and  carried 
him  in  her  gown  to  the  nearest  fountain;  then, 
repelling  with  a  gesture  the  servants  of  the  house- 
hold, who  were  hurrying  to  help  her,  she  rested  on 
the  stone  coping  the  knee  on  which  the  little  body 
lay,  and  dipped  that  pale,  adored  face  beneath  the 
rippling  water,  letting  it  flow  across  the  livid  eyelid 
and  that  sinister  red  stain,  which  the  water  washed 
away,  while  there  filtered  still  a  thin  line,  redder 
and  redder,  between  the  lids.  She  did  not  speak, 
she  did  not  even  think.  In  her  muslin  dress, 
stained  and  soaked,  clinging  to  her  body  like  the 
drapery  of  a  marble  naiad,  she  bent  above  her 
little  one  and  watched. 


The  Little  King.  363 

What  a  moment !  what  suspense !  Little  by 
little  revived  by  the  immersion,  the  wounded  child 
first  quivered,  and  stretched  his  limbs  as  if  awak- 
ing ;  then  suddenly  he  moaned. 

"  He  lives !  "  she  said  with  a  delirious  cry. 

Lifting  her  head,  she  saw  Meraut  before  her,  his 
pallor,  his  despair  seeming  to  ask  pardon.  The 
memory  of  what  had  passed  through  her  mind  on 
that  bench  came  back  to  her,  mingled  with  the 
terrible  shock  of  the  catastrophe,  and  her  weakness 
so  rapidly  chastised  upon  her  child.  A  fury  seized 
her  against  that  man,  against  herself.  .  . 

"  Begone  !  .  .  begone  !  .  .  Let  me  never  see  you 
more  .  .  ."  she  cried  to  him,  with  a  dreadful  look. 
It  was  her  love  that,  to  punish  herself,  to  cure  her- 
self, she  thus  flung  as  an  insult  into  his  face. 


•  64  Kings  in  Exile. 


XVI. 

THE  DARK   ROOM. 

"  THERE  was,  once  upon  a  time,  in  the  country  of 
Oldenburg,  a  lady  Countess  of  Ponikau,  to  whom 
the  dwarfs  had  given,  on  the  day  of  her  wedding, 
three  little  loaves  of  gold.  .  ." 

It  is  Mme.  de  Silvis  who  is  relating  this  tale,  in 
the  obscurity  of  a  dark  room,  the  windows  hermet- 
ically closed,  the  curtains  hanging  to  the  floor. 
The  little  king  is  lying  on  his  bed ;  the  queen  be- 
side him,  like  a  phantom,  is  applying  ice  upon  his 
forehead  covered  with  a  bandage,  ice  which  she 
has  renewed  every  two  minutes,  night  and  day,  for 
a  whole  long  week.  How  did  she  live  without 
sleep,  almost  without  food,  seated  by  that  narrow 
pillow,  her  hands  holding  those  of  her  son  in  the 
intervals  of  applying  the  ice,  passing  from  its  cool- 
ness to  the  fever  she  watched  and  dreaded  in  the 
pulse  of  that  feeble  life? 

The  little  king  wanted  his  mother  there,  there, 
always  there.  This  darkness  of  the  great  room 
was  peopled  to  him  with  dangerous  sliadt>ws7  ter- 
rifying apparitions.  And  the  impossibility  of  read- 
ing, of  touching  a  single  plaything,  held  him  in  a 
torpor  which  alarmed  Frederica. 

"  Do  you  feel  pain  ?  "  she  asked  him  constantly. 


The  Dark  Room.  365 

"  No  .  .  I  feel  so  dull  .  .  ."  the  child  would  an- 
swer in  a  weary  voice ;  and  it  was  to  drive  away 
this  dulness,  to  people  the  sad  precincts  of  the 
chamber  with  brilliant  visions,  that  Mme.  de  Silvis 
reopened  her  budget  of  fantastic  fable,  full  of  old 
German  castles,  imps  and  gnomes  dancing  on  the 
floor  of  a  dungeon,  where  the  princess  is  expect- 
ing a  blue  bird  and  spinning  her  glass  threads. 

Listening  to  these  interminable  tales,  the  queen 
felt  despair  in  her  heart.  It  seemed  to  her  that 
the  work  she  had  accomplished  with  so  much 
pains  was  being  undone,  and  that  she  was  wit- 
nessing the  destruction,  stone  by  stone,  of  a  lofty 
triumphal  column.  It  was  that  which  she  saw  in 
the  darkness  before  her,  during  those  long  hours 
of  seclusion,  far  more  preoccupied  by  the  thought 
that  her  child  had  fallen  back  into  the  hands  of 
women,  into  the  feebleness  of  the  little  Zara,  than 
by  the  wound  itself,  the  true  gravity  of  which  she 
did  not  yet  know.  When  the  doctor,  lamp  in 
hand,  put  aside  for  a  moment  the  accumulated 
shades  and  raised  the  bandage,  trying  to  revive  the 
sensitiveness  of  the  injured  eye  by  a  drop  of  atro- 
pine,  the  mother  was  comforted  because  the  little 
patient  did  not  cry  or  try  to  defend  himself  with  his 
arms.  No  one  dared  to  tell  her  that  such  insensi- 
bility, such  stillness  of  the  nerves  showed,  on  the 
contrary,  the  death  of  the  organ.  The  ball,  in 
ricochetting,  although  it  had  spent  its  force,  had 
struck  and  loosened  the  retina.  The  right  eye  was 
irrevocably  gone.  All  the  precautions  taken  were 
solely  to  save  the  other,  threatened  by  that  organic 


366  Kings  in  Exile. 

affinity  which  makes  our  sight  a  single  tool  with  a 
double  handle.  Ah  !  when  the  queen  should  know 
the  extent  of  her  misfortune  !  —  she  who  so  firmly 
believed  that,  thanks  to  her  care,  to  her  vigilant  ten- 
derness, the  accident  would  leave  no  trace,  —  she 
who  was  already  talking  to  the  child  of  going  out ! 

"  Leopold,  shall  you  not  be  glad  to  have  a  beau- 
tiful drive  in  the  forest?" 

Yes,  Leopold  would  be  very  glad.  He  wished 
they  would  take  him  where  they  did  before,  to  that 
fete,  where  he  went  with  his  mother  and  tutor. 
Then  suddenly  interrupting  himself, — 

"  Where  is  he,  M.  Elysee?  Why  does  he  never 
come  here?  " 

They  told  him  that  his  master  was  on  a  journey. 
That  explanation  satisfied  him.  To  think  fatigued 
him ;  so  did  speaking.  He  dropped  back  into  his 
dull  indifference ;  returning  to  the  hazy  regions 
evoked  by  invalids,  whose  dreams  are  mingled  with 
the  scene  around  them  and  the  fixed  appearances 
of  things,  the  movement  and  sound  of  which  their 
nurses  fear.  People  came  in  and  went  out ;  whis- 
pers crossed  each  other  and  discreet  steps ;  but  the 
queen  heard  nothing,  solely  occupied  in  applying 
that  ice.  Sometimes  Christian  would  push  open 
the  door,  always  ajar  on  account  of  the  heat  of  the 
closed  room,  and  come  in  to  say,  in  a  voice  that  he 
strove  to  render  joyous  and  careless,  some  pleasant 
'drollery  to  make  the  boy  laugh  or  talk.  But  his 
voice  sounded  false  in  presence  of  the  catastrophe, 
and  the  father  intimidated  the  child.  That  little 
sunken  memory,  which  the  shot  had  filled  with  the 


The  Dark  Room.  367 

cloud  of  its  smoke,  retained  a  few  impressions  of 
past  scenes,  the  anxious  waitings  of  his  mother,  her 
revolt  that  night  when  she  almost  dragged  him  to 
a  fall  of  three  storeys.  He  answered  his  father  in  a 
low  voice,  his  teeth  closed.  Then  Christian  would 
address  his  wife :  "  You  ought  to  rest,  Frederica, 
you  will  kill  yourself.  .  .  For  the  child's  sake, 
even.  .  ."  Urgent,  imploring,  the  hand  of  the  little 
prince  would  clasp  that  of  his  mother,  which  re- 
assured him  in  the  same  mute,  eloquent  manner : 
"No,  no,  do  not  be  afraid  ...  I  will  not  leave 
you.  .  ."  She  exchanged  a  few  words  coldly  with 
her  husband  and  left  him  to  his  gloomy  thoughts. 
The  accident  to  his  son  completed  for  Christian 
a  true  series  of  black  disasters.  He  felt  himself 
alone  in  the  world,  stunned,  despairing.  Ah !  if 
his  wife  would  only  take  him  back.  .  .  He  felt  the 
need  of  all  weak  natures  to  draw  near  to  some  one, 
to  lay  his  head  upon  a  friendly  bosom,  and  comfort 
himself  with  tears,  confessions ;  after  which  he 
could  return  with  a  lighter  heart  to  new  enjoy- 
ments and  fresh  betrayals.  But  Frederica's  heart 
is  forever  lost  to  him ;  and  now  the  child  also 
turns  away  from  his  caresses.  He  told  himself  all 
this,  standing  at  the  foot  of  the  bed  in  the  dimness 
of  that  dark  room,  while  the  queen,  attentive  to 
the  minutes,  took  the  ice  from  the  bowl,  applied  it 
to  the  moistened  bandage,  lifting  and  kissing  the 
little  forehead  to  feel  the  heat  of  it,  and  while 
Mme.  de  Silvis  related  gravely  the  story  of  the 
three  little  loaves  of  gold  to  the  legitimate  sov- 
ereign of  the  kingdoms  of  Illyria  and  Dalmatia. 


368  Kings  in  Exile. 

Christian  left  the  room,  his  exit  as  little  noticed 
as  his  entrance,  and  wandered  sadly  through  the 
silent,  well-ordered  house  which  old  Rosen  kept  up 
in  all  its  customary  ceremonial,  he  himself  coming 
and  going  from  the  mansion  to  the  offices,  his 
figure  stiff,  but  his  head  shaking.  The  hot-houses, 
the  garden  continued  to  bloom ;  the  ouistitis,  re- 
viving in  the  balmier  weather,  filled  their  cages 
with  cries  and  skips.  The  prince's  pony,  led  out 
daily  by  the  groom,  made  his  rounds  of  the  court- 
yard, littered  now  in  straw,  and  stopping  before  the 
portico  turned  his  nut-brown  eyes  to  the  steps 
down  which  the  little  king  was  wont  to  come  to 
him.  The  aspect  of  the  house  is  always  elegant 
and  comfortable ;  but  every  one  expects,  awaits ; 
suspense  is  in  the  ambient  air,  and  a  silence  like 
that  which  follows  a  great  thunder-clap.  The  most 
marked  circumstance  is  the  sight  of  those  three 
blinds  hermetically  closed  while  all  the  rest  are 
open  to  the  light  and  air,  shrouding  that  mystery 
of  sorrow  and  of  pain. 

Me>aut,  who,  though  driven  from  the  royal  house, 
is  lodging  near  it  and  roams  incessantly  around  it, 
Meraut  gazes  despairingly  at  those  closed  win- 
dows. He  returns  each  day  in  terror  lest  he  find 
them  open,  the  smoke  of  an  extinguished  taper 
exhaling  from  them.  The  inhabitants  of  that  sec- 
tion of  Saint-Mande  are  beginning  to  recognize 
him..  The  seller  of  cakes  stops  the  rattle  of  her 
castanets  when  the  tall  fellow  with  the  mournful 
air  goes  by ;  the  players  at  bowls  and  the  guard  at 
the  railway  station  imprisoned  in  his  little  wooden 


The  Dark  Room.  369 

box,  think  him  crazy ;  and  indeed  his  despair  is 
turning  into  mania.  The  queen  did  right  to  drive 
him  away;  he  deserved  it;  and  his  passion  dis- 
appeared before  the  great  destruction  of  his  hopes. 
To  have  dreamed  of  making  a  king,  to  have  given 
himself  that  splendid  task,  and  then  to  have 
destroyed,  annihilated  all  with  his  own  hands ! 
The  father  and  mother,  more  cruelly  struck  in 
their  affections,  were  not  more  despairing  than  he. 
He  had  not  even  the  consolation  of  giving  assist- 
ance, watchfulness  at  all  hours ;  scarcely  could  he 
get  any  news  of  what  was  happening;  the  servants 
treating  him  with  a  black  rancour  as  the  cause  of 
the  disaster.  Sometimes,  however,  a  forest  watch- 
man, who  had  access  to  the  house,  brought  him 
the  news  of  the  servant's  hall,  exaggerated  by  that 
craving  for  the  worst  which  characterizes  the  popu- 
lace. Now  the  little  king  was  blind ;  then  his 
brain  was  attacked  and  weakened ;  the  queen  was 
declared  to  be  letting  herself  die  of  hunger ;  and 
the  unhappy  Elysee  lived  a  whole  day  on  these 
dreadful  rumours,  wandering  in  the  forest  as  long 
as  his  legs  could  carry  him,  then  returning  to  watch 
at  the  edge  of  the  wood  in  the  tall,  flowery  grass, 
trampled  of  a  Sunday  by  the  holiday-makers,  but 
deserted  of  a  week-day,  a  truly  rural  bit  of  ground. 
Once,  towards  evening,  he  was  lying  at  full  length 
in  the  cool  grass,  his  eyes  fixed  upon  the  house, 
from  which  the  light  through  the  interlacing 
branches  was  fading.  The  players  at  bowls  were 
departing,  the  forest  watchmen  were  beginning 
their  nightly  rounds,  the  swallows  were  navigating 

24 


37°  Kings  in  Exile. 

in  great  circles  above  the  tallest  shrubs  in  pursuit 
of  gnats,  which  were  dropping  down  with  the  setting 
sun.  The  time  of  day  was  melancholy,  filysee 
sank  into  its  sadness,  weary  in  mind  as  in  body, 
letting  his  memories,  his  anxieties,  speak  within 
him,  as  often  happens  amid  these  silences  of  nature 
in  which  our  inward  struggles  seem  to  make  them- 
selves heard.  Suddenly,  his  glance,  which  was  seek- 
ing nothing,  fell  upon  the  ambling,  unsteady  gait, 
the  quaker  hat,  the  white  waistcoat,  and  the  gaiters 
of  Boscovich.  M.  le  conseiller  was  walking  rapidly, 
holding  cautiously  in  his  hand  some  object  that 
was  wrapped  in  his  handkerchief.  He  did  not 
seem  surprised  to  see  Elysee,  and  .came  up  to  him 
as  if  nothing  had  happened,  saying  in  the  easiest 
and  most  natural  tone  in  the  world :  — 

"  My  dear  Me>aut,  you  see  before  you  a  most 
happy  man." 

"Ah!  my  God!  What?  .  .  Is  Monseigneur's 
condition  .  .  ." 

The  botanist  assumed  at  once  the  proper  air  of 
grief  with  which  to  answer  that  Monseigneur  con- 
tinued just  the  same,  —  always  kept  quiet,  the  room 
darkened  ;  painful  uncertainty,  oh  !  yes,  very  pain- 
ful. .  .  Then  abruptly:  "  Guess  what  I  have 
here.  .  .  Take  care,  it  is  very  fragile.  .  .  You 
are  loosening  some  of  the  earth.  .  .  A  root  of 
clematis  .  .  .  but  not  the  common  clematis  of  your 
gardens  .  .  .  Clematis  Dalmatica  ...  a  dwarf 
species,  quite  peculiar,  only  found  among  us, 
down  there.  .  .  I  doubted  at  first,  I  hesitated ;  I 
have  been  watching  it  since  last  spring.  .  .  And 


The  Dark  Room.  371 

now  see,  stalk,  corollas  .  .  .  and  that  fragrance  of 
peeled  almonds.  .  ." 

Unfolding  his  handkerchief  with  infinite  precau- 
tions, he  revealed  a  frail,  contorted  plant,  with  a 
milk-white  flower  and  pale-green  leaves  that  seemed 
blending  together.  Meraut  tried  to  question  him, 
but  the  monomaniac  was  wholly  absorbed  in  his 
passion,  his  discovery.  It  certainly  was  a  very 
strange  fact  that  this  little  plant  should,  alone  of 
its  race,  have  grown  there,  six  hundred  leagues 
from  its  native  home.  Flowers  have  their  history, 
and  also  their  romances ;  and  here  was  a  probable 
romance  which  the  good  man  repeated  to  himself, 
believing  that  he  told  it  to  Meraut. 

"  By  what  caprice  of  the  soil,  by  what  geologi- 
cal mystery  can  this  little  travelling  seed  have  been 
brought  to  germinate  at  the  foot  of  an  oak  in 
Saint-Mande?  Such  cases  do  sometimes  appear. 
A  botanist  of  my  acquaintance  found  a  Lapland 
flower  in  the  Pyrenees.  It  must  happen  through  cur- 
rents of  atmosphere,  and  threads  of  the  soil  wander- 
ing from  place  to  place.  .  .  But  the  miracle  here 
is,  that  this  scrap  of  a  plant  has  germinated  pre- 
cisely in  the  neighbourhood  of  its  regal  compatriots, 
exiles  themselves.  .  .  See  how  vigorous  it  is  ... 
a  trifle  paler  perhaps  through  exile,  but  all  its 
tendrils  out,  prepared  to  climb.  .  ." 

He  stood  there,  in  the  setting  sunlight,  clematis 
in  hand,  motionless  in  happy  contemplation.  Then 
suddenly  he  cried  out :  — 

"  The  devil !  it  is  getting  late  ...  I  must  go 
in  .  ,  Adieu." 


372  Kings  in  Exile. 

"  I  am  coming  with  you,"  said  filysee. 

Boscovich  stopped,  stupefied.  He  had  been 
present  at  the  scene,  and  knew  the  manner  in 
which  the  tutor  had  been  dismissed,  attributing  his 
dismissal  solely  to  the  accident.  .  .  What  would 
be  thought  of  his  return  ?  What  would  the  queen 
say? 

"  No  one  will  see  me,  Monsieur  le  conseiller.  .  . 
You  must  take  me  in  by  the  avenue,  and  I  will  slip 
furtively  to  the  door  of  the  room.  .  ." 

"  What !   you  wish  .  .  ." 

"  To  go  near  to  Monseigneur,  to  hear  him 
speak  for  a  moment,  without  his  knowing  I  am 
there.  .  ." 

The  feeble  Boscovich  exclaimed,  objected,  but 
he  walked  on  all  the  same,  driven  by  the  will  of 
the  stronger  man,  who  followed  him  without  pay- 
ing the  least  heed  to  his  protestations. 

Oh !  what  emotion  when  the  little  gate  on  the 
avenue  turned  amid  its  ivy  and  Meraut  found  him- 
self once  more  at  the  very  spot  in  the  garden  where 
his  life  was  blasted. 

"  Wait  for  me,"  said  Boscovich,  trembling  all 
over ;  "  I  will  come  and  tell  you  when  the  servants 
are  at  dinner.  .  .  In  that  way  you  will  meet  no 
one  on  the  staircase.  .  ." 

No  one  had  come  to  the  shooting-ground  since 
that  fatal  day.  In  the  crushed  flower-borders,  in 
the  gravel  torn  up  by  frantic  steps,  the  scene 
was  still  visible.  The  same  boards  with  shot-holes 
hung  to  the  trellises,  the  water  flowing  from  the 
fountain  as  from  a  spring  of  tears,  all  things  were 


The  Dark  Room.  373 

gray  in  the  gloom  of  the  twilight;  it  seemed  to 
Elys^e  as  though  again  he  heard  the  queen's  voice 
saying :  "  Begone  !  .  .  begone  !  .  ."  in  tones  which 
gave  him  now,  as  he  listened  to  them  in  memory, 
the  sensation  of  a  wound  and  a  caress. 

Boscovich  returned,  and  together  they  glided 
past  the  trees  to  the  house.  In  the  glass  gallery 
opening  on  the  garden  which  served  as  the  school- 
room, the  books  were  on  the  table,  the  two  chairs 
stood  ready  for  master  and  pupil,  awaiting  the 
next  lesson  with  the  cruel  inertia  of  Things.  It  was 
agonizing ;  and  so  was  the  silence  of  these  places, 
where  the  child,  singing,  running,  making  his  little 
orbit  a  dozen  times  a  day  with  songs  and  laughter, 
was  missing. 

From  the  brilliantly  lighted  staircase,  Boscovich, 
who  walked  in  front,  took  him  into  the  room  that 
preceded  that  of  the  king,  also  kept  dark  to  pre- 
vent the  slightest  ray  of  light  from  entering  the 
room  beyond.  A  night-lamp  alone  burned  in  an 
alcove,  where,  too,  were  phials  and  potions. 

"  The  queen  and  Mme.  de  Silvis  are  with  him.  .  . 
Be  sure  you  do  not  speak.  .  .  And  come  away 
quickly.  .  ." 

Elyse"e  heard  no  more;  his  foot  was  on  the 
threshold,  his  heart  beating  and  striving  to  com- 
mand itself.  The  heavy  shadows  at  first  prevented 
his  unaccustomed  eyes  from  distinguishing  any- 
thing; but  he  heard,  coming  as  it  were  from  a 
depth,  a  childish  voice  reciting  in  a  sort  of  sing- 
song, its  evening  prayers,  —  a  voice  scarcely  to  be 
recognized  as  that  of  the  little  king,  so  weary, 


374  Kings  in  Exile. 

gloomy,  dull,  it  was.  Stopping  short,  after  one  of 
the  numerous  "  amens,"  the  child  said :  — 

"  Mother,  must  I  say  the  king's  prayer?" 

"  Why,  yes,  my  darling,"  replied  the  beautiful 
grave  voice,  the  cadence  of  which  had  also  changed, 
wavering  a  little  in  its  fall,  like  a  metal  worn  by  a 
corrosive  water  falling  drop  by  drop. 

The  king  hesitated. 

"  I  thought  ...  It  seemed  to  me  that  now  it 
was  not  worth  while.  .  ." 

"  Why  not?  "  the  queen  asked  quickly. 

"  Oh  !  "  said  the  child-king,  in  an  elderly,  reflec- 
tive tone,  "  I  think  I  have  many  other  things  to 
ask  of  God  than  those  in  that  prayer.  .  ."  Then 
correcting  himself,  from  the  impulse  of  his  good 
little  nature,  he  added  :  "  In  a  minute,  mamma,  in 
a  minute ;  as  you  wish  it.  .  ." 

And  slowly  he  began  in  a  tremulous,  resigned 
voice :  — 

"  O  Lord  !  who  art  my  God  ;  thou  hast  placed 
upon  the  throne  thy  servant;  but  I  am  a  child, 
who  knows  not  how  to  act,  though  I  am  trusted 
with  the  people  thou  hast  chosen.  .  ." 

A  smothered  sob  was  heard  at  the  farther  end  of 
the  room.  The  queen  quivered. 

"Who  is  there?  .  .  Is  that  you,  Christian?" 
she  added,  as  the  door  closed  hastily. 

At  the  end  of  a  week  the  doctor  declared  that 
he  would  not  condemn  the  little  patient  to  the 
torture  of  a  dark  room  any  longer,  and  that  it  was 
now  time  to  let  him  have  a  little  light. 


The  Dark  Room.  375 

"  Already !  "  said  Frederica ;  "  they  assured  me  it 
would  last  at  least  a  month." 

The  physician  was  unable  to  tell  her  that,  the 
eye  being  dead,  completely  dead,  without  hope  of 
recovery,  the  imprisonment  was  useless.  He  evaded 
the  truth  by  vague  phrases,  of  which  the  pity  of 
such  men  have  the  secret.  The  queen  did  not 
understand  him,  and  no  one  about  her  had  the 
strength  to  enlighten  her.  They  waited  for  Pere 
Alphee;  religion  having  the  right  of  way  to  all 
wounds  even  to  those  she  cannot  cure.  With  his 
natural  brutality,  his  roughness  of  tone,  the  monk, 
who  used  the  word  of  God  as  a  club,  delivered  the 
frightful  blow  which  brought  down  every  pride 
in  the  breast  of  Frederica.  The  mother  had  suf- 
fered on  the  day  of  the  accident,  struck  on  all  her 
tenderest  fibres  by  the  cries,  the  swoon,  the  blood 
of  her  little  one.  This  second  shock  fell  more 
directly  on  the  queen.  Her  son  maimed,  dis- 
figured !  She,  who  wanted  him  so  beautiful  for 
the  triumph !  Must  she  take  to  the  Illyrians  this 
poor  infirm  child?  Frederica  never  forgave  the 
physician  for  having  deceived  her.  Thus,  even  in 
exile,  kings  are  always  victims  to  their  grandeur 
and  to  human  cowardice. 

At  first,  in  order  to  avoid  too  sudden  a  transition 
from  darkness  to  light,  green  serge  curtains  were 
drawn  across  the  panes ;  but  when,  finally,  all  the 
windows  were  frankly  opened  and  the  actors  in  this 
sad  drama  were  able  to  look  at  one  another  by 
daylight,  it  was  only  to  perceive  the  changes  that 
had  taken  place  during  that  seclusion.  Frederica 


376  Kings  in  Exile. 

had  grown  old ;  she  had  changed  the  fashion  of 
her  hair  to  hide  the  whitening  locks  about  the 
temples.  The  little  prince,  quite  wan,  wore  a 
bandage  over  his  eye,  and  all  his  little  face, 
puckered  with  grimaces  and  precocious  wrinkles, 
seemed  to  feel  the  burden  of  that  bandage.  What 
a  new  life  for  him,  this  maimed  existence !  At 
table  he  had  to  learn  to  eat ;  his  spoon  and  fork, 
misguided,  struck  his  forehead  or  his  ear  with  that 
curious  awkwardness  of  one  lost  sense  upsetting  all 
the  others.  He  laughed  his  little  laugh  of  a  sickly 
child,  and  the  mother  turned  aside  as  she  heard 
it  to  hide  her  tears.  As  soon  as  he  could  go  into 
the  garden  other  distresses  came.  He  tottered, 
stumbled  at  every  step,  took  sideways  for  straight 
before  him  ;  or  else,  fearful  of  everything,  he  shrank 
at  the  slightest  obstacle,  clinging  to  the  hands  and 
the  skirts  of  his  mother,  and  turning  each  well- 
known  corner  of  the  park  as  if  an  ambush  lay 
behind  it.  The  queen  endeavoured  to  arouse  at 
least  his  mind ;  but  the  shock  had  no  doubt  been 
too  great ;  it  seemed  as  if  with  the  visual  ray,  a  ray 
of  intellect  had  also  been  extinguished.  He  fully 
understood,  poor  little  boy,  the  grief  his  condition 
caused  his  mother;  in  speaking  to  her  he  made 
an  effort  to  raise  his  head  and  give  her  a  timid, 
one-sided  glance  as  if  to  ask  pardon  for  his  weak- 
ness. But  he  could  not  conquer  certain  physical 
and  unreasonable  terrors.  The  sound  of  a  shot 
at  the  edge  of  the  wood,  the  first  he  had  heard 
since  the  accident,  caused  him  almost  a  fit  of 
epilepsy.  The  first  time  also  that  they  spoke 


The  Dark  Room.  377 

to  him  of  mounting  his  pony,  his  whole  body 
trembled. 

"  No  ...  no  ...  I  beg  of  you,"  he  said,  pressing 
close  to  Frederica.  .  .  "  Take  me  in  the  landau  .  .  . 
I  am  afraid.  .  ." 

"Afraid  of  what?" 

"  I  am  afraid  ...  I  am  so  afraid.  .  ." 

Neither  arguments  nor  entreaties  availed. 

"  Well,  then,"  commanded  the  queen,  in  a  tone  of 
inward  anger,  "  bring  the  landau." 

This  was  on  a  fine  Sunday  at  the  close  of  autumn, 
recalling  that  Sunday  in  May  when  they  had  gone 
to  the  fair  at  Vincennes.  Unlike  her  feelings  on 
that  day,  Frederica  was  now  annoyed  by  the  com- 
mon crowd  that  filled  the  walks  and  lawns.  This 
gayety  in  the  open  air,  this  smell  of  their  pro- 
visions on  the  grass  sickened  her.  Now  she  saw 
poverty  and  sadness  in  all  those  groups,  despite 
their  laughter  and  their  Sunday  clothes.  The 
child,  trying  to  smooth  that  beautiful  face,  whose 
expression  of  disenchantment  he  attributed  to  him- 
self, clung  to  his  mother  with  passionate  and  timid 
caresses. 

"  Are  you  angry  with  me,  mamma,  because  I 
would  not  take  the  pony?" 

No  ;  she  was  not  angry.  But  how  would  it  be  on 
the  day  of  his  coronation,  when  his  subjects  recalled 
him?  A  king  must  know  how  to  ride  on  horseback. 

The  wrinkled  little  head  turned  to  gaze  at  the 
queen  with  its  solitary  eye. 

"  Do  you  really  think,  really,  that  they  will  want 
me  still,  as  I  am  now  ?  " 


378  Kings  in  Exile. 

He  looked  indeed  so  frail,  so  old.  But  Frederica, 
indignant  at  the  doubt,  told  him  of  the  king  of 
Westphalia  who  was  quite  blind,  of  both  eyes. 

"  Oh !  a  sham  king,  he !  They  turned  him 
out." 

Then  she  told  him  the  tale  of  John  of  Bohemia 
at  the  battle  of  Crecy,  requesting  his  knights  to 
lead  him  forward  far  enough  to  deal  blows  with  his 
sword,  and  so  far  did  they  lead  him  that  they  were 
all  found  dead  the  next  day,  their  bodies  stretched 
out,  they  and  their  horses  in  a  mass  together. 

"  That  was  terrible  .  .  .  terrible  !  "  replied  Leo- 
pold. 

And  he  sat  there,  shuddering,  lost  in  that  heroic 
history  as  in  the  fairy  tales  of  Mme.  de  Silvis ;  so 
small,  so  puny,  so  little  a  king !  At  that  moment 
the  carriage  left  the  borders  of  the  lake  to  enter  a 
narrow  roadway  where  there  was  room  for  scarcely 
more  than  the  wheels.  Some  one  stepped  hastily 
aside,  a  man  whom  the  child,  impeded  by  his 
bandage,  could  not  see,  but  whom  the  queen 
knew  instantly.  Gravely,  with  a  hard  look,  she 
showed  him  by  a  motion  of  her  head  the  poor 
maimed  boy,  cowering  in  the  folds  of  her  gown, 
their  masterpiece  destroyed,  the  wreck,  the  relic 
of  a  once  great  race.  It  was  their  last  meeting ; 
and  Meraut  left  Saint-Mand6  forever. 


Fides,  Spes.  379 


xvii. 

FIDES,  SPES. 

THE  Due  de  Rosen  entered  first. 

"  It  is  rather  damp,"  he  said  gravely.  "  The 
rooms  have  not  been  opened  since  the  death  of 
my  son." 

And  in  truth  a  great  chill,  like  that  of  a  sepul- 
chral cave,  filled  the  splendid  suite  of  apartments, 
where  the  guzlas  had  so  proudly  sounded,  and 
where  all  remained  as  it  was  on  the  night'  of  the 
ball.  The  two  carved  chairs  of  the  king  and  queen, 
close  to  the  gallery  of  the  musicians,  still  presided. 
Arm-chairs  in  a  circle  marked  an  aristocratic 
"  aside "  of  the  greater  personages.  Ribbons, 
fragments  of  flowers,  atoms  of  gauze,  a  sort  of  dust 
of  the  dance,  lay  scattered  on  the  floor.  Evi- 
dently, the  decorators  had  rapidly  pulled  down  the 
hangings,  the  garlands  of  foliage,  in  haste  to  close 
doors  and  windows  on  those  salons  which  told  of 
festal  joy  in  that  house  of  mourning.  The  same 
abandonment  was  visible  in  the  garden,  heaped 
with  dead  leaves,  over  which  a  whole  winter  had 
passed  and  then  a  spring  without  cultivation,  so 
that  a  wealth  of  wild  vegetation  had  now  invaded 
it.  By  one  of  those  strange  whims  of  sorrow 
which  desires  that  all  about  it  shall  suffer  and  be 


380  Kings  in  Exile. 

barren,  the  duke  had  not  allowed  a  single  touch  to 
be  given  to  the  grounds,  nor  had  he  entered  even 
once  his  magnificent  apartments. 

After  the  affair  of  Gravosa,  as  Colette,  very  deli- 
cate since  the  birth  of  her  child,  had  gone  to  Nice 
with  the  little  W  to  recruit  her  health,  the  duke 
renounced  his  nightly  returns  to  the  lie  Saint-Louis, 
and  ordered  a  bed  put  up  for  him  in  the  adminis- 
tration building  at  Saint-Mande.  Evidently,  he 
would  sooner  or  later  sell  the  great  mansion ;  and 
he  now  began  to  part  with  the  sumptuous  anti- 
quities that  filled  it.  This  was  why  the  Venetian 
mirrors  that  went  to  sleep  reflecting  the  amorous 
couples  of  Hungarian  mazurkas,  the  sparkling  of 
eyes  and  lustres,  were  now,  in  the  gray,  cold  light 
of  a  Parisian  day,  giving  back  the  uncouth  silhou- 
ettes, the  greedy  lips  of  Pere  Leemans  and  the 
Sieur  Pichery,  his  acolyte,  —  livid  he,  with  his 
hooked  moustache,  stiff  with  cosmetics. 

It  needed  all  Pere  Leemans'  life-long  habits,  his 
experience  in  bargaining  and  in  those  comedies 
which  bring  into  play  every  facial  grimace  of 
humanity,  to  prevent  the  old  man  from  uttering  a 
cry  of  joy  and  admiration  when  the  duke's  servant, 
as  old  and  erect  as  himself,  opened  and  threw 
back  noisily  the  outer  blinds  against  the  wall  of  the 
house,  and  he  could  see,  shimmering  discreetly  and 
blending  their  splendid  tones  of  wood  and  bronze 
and  ivory,  the  precious  treasures  of  a  collection, 
not  ticketed  and  cared  for  like  those  of  Mme.  de 
Spalato  but  of  a  more  superb  luxury,  more  bar- 
barous, more  novel.  And  without  a  dent,  without 


Fides,  Spes.  381 

a  defacement !  .  .  Old  Rosen  had  not  pillaged 
ignorantly,  as  the  generals  who  rush  through  a 
summer  palace  like  a  waterspout,  carrying  off  with 
equal  ardour  rubbish  and  treasures.  Nothing  here 
but  choice  marvels.  It  was  curious  to  watch  the 
pauses  of  the  old  dealer,  his  snout  projecting 
through  his  beard,  fixing  his  magnifier,  scratching 
the  enamels  gently,  ringing  the  bronzes,  all  with 
an  air  of  indifference,  even  contempt;  while  from 
head  to  foot,  from  the  tips  of  his  nails  to  the  hair 
of  his  beard  his  whole  being  quivered  and  sparkled 
as  if  he  had  been  put  into  contact  with  an  electric 
current.  Pichery  was  likewise  not  less  amusing  to 
observe.  Having  no  notion  whatever  of  art,  no 
personal  taste,  he  formed  his  impressions  on  those 
of  his  partner,  assuming  the  same  contemptuous 
air,  quickly  changed,  however,  into  stupefaction 
when  Leemans  said  to  him  in  a  low  voice  about 
some  treasure,  as  he  bent  over  a  little  book  in 
which  he  never  stopped  taking  notes:  "Worth  a 
hundred  thousand  francs,  if  a  sou.  .  ."  Here  was 
a  rare,  unique  opportunity  to  recoup  themselves 
for  their  losses  on  the  "  Grand  Stroke,"  by  which 
they  had  allowed  themselves  to  be  so  supremely 
fooled.  But  they  had  to  be  cautious  how  they 
behaved ;  for  the  old  general  of  pandours,  as  dis- 
trustful and  impenetrable  as  the  whole  "  brocante  " 
trade  put  together,  followed  them  step  by  step, 
planted  himself  behind  them,  and  was  not  in  the 
least  the  dupe  of  their  grimaces. 

Proceeding  thus  they  came  at  last,  at  the  end  of 
the  reception  salons,  to  a  little  room   raised  two 


382  Kings  in  Exile. 

steps  above  the  others,  delightfully  decorated  in 
Moorish  style  with  low  divans,  rugs,  and  authentic 
cabinets. 

"  Is  this  included  ?  "  asked  Leemans.  / 

The  general  hesitated  imperceptibly  for  a  mo- 
ment before  replying.  It  was  Colette's  haven  in 
that  vast  mansion,  her  favourite  boudoir,  in  which 
she  took  refuge  at  her  rare  leisure  moments  and 
wrote  her  correspondence.  .  .  The  thought  came 
to  him  to  reserve  this  Moorish  furniture  which  she 
liked  .  .  .  but  no,  he  would  stop  at  nothing;  all 
must  be  sold. 

"  Yes,  this  is  included,"  he  said  coldly. 

Leemans,  attracted  at  once  by  the  rarity  of  a 
piece  of  Arabian  furniture,  carved  and  gilded,  with 
arcades  and  miniature  galleries,  began  to  examine 
the  multifarious  drawers,  some  secret,  opening  one 
into  the  other  by  hidden  springs,  slender,  delicate 
little  drawers  exhaling  the  orange  and  sandal-wood 
of  their  satiny  linings.  Putting  his  hand  into  one 
of  them  he  felt  something  rustle. 

"  Here  are  papers,"  he  said. 

The  inventory  taken  and  the  two  dealers  ushered 
out,  the  duke  bethought  him  of  the  papers  forgot- 
ten and  left  behind  in  the  drawer.  Sure  enough,  a 
whole  packet  of  letters,  tied  with  a  crumpled  rib- 
bon and  redolent  of  the  subdued  fragrance  of  the 
drawer.  He  looked  at  it  mechanically,  and  recog- 
nized the  handwriting,  Christian's  large,  straggling, 
fantastic  writing,  which  for  many  months  had 
reached  him  on  notes  and  drafts  requiring  money. 
No  doubt  these  were  letters  from  the  king  to  Her- 


Fides,  Spes.  383 

bert.  But  no :  "  Colette,  my  dear  love.  .  .  "  With 
a  brusque  gesture  he  pulled  off  the  ribbon  and 
scattered  the  bundle  on  a  divan,  some  thirty  notes, 
giving  rendezvous,  thanks,  bestowing  gifts,  —  in 
short  the  whole  adulterous  correspondence  in  all 
its  melancholy  commonplace ;  ending  with  excuses 
for  missing  assignations,  missives  growing  colder 
and  colder,  like  the  last  floaters  at  the  tail  of  a  kite. 
In  nearly  all  there  was  some  reference  to  an  annoy- 
ing and  persecuting  personage  whom  Christian 
scoffingly  called :  the  "  Demon  of  Ill-luck,"  or 
simply :  "  D.  of  Ill-luck,"  on  whom  the  duke 
was  trying  to  put  a  name,  when  at  the  end  of  one 
of  those  satirical  pages  —  far  more  licentious  than 
sentimental — he  suddenly  saw  his  own  image,  his 
own  little  pointed  head  on  his  long  stilted  legs.  It 
was  he  himself,  his  wrinkles,  his  eagle  beak,  his 
blinking  eyes ;  and  beneath,  to  leave  no  manner  of 
doubt,  was  written :  "  Demon  of  Ill-luck  mounting 
guard  on  the  Quai  d'Orsay." 

The  first  surprise  over,  the  outrage  fully  com- 
prehended in  all  its  baseness,  the  old  man  uttered : 
"  Oh !  "  and  stopped,  confounded  and  ashamed. 

That  his  son  had  been  betrayed  did  not  surprise 
him;  he  had  known  it  all  along.  But  by  Chris- 
tian !  to  whom  they  had  sacrificed  all,  for  whom 
Herbert  died  at  twenty-eight,  and  for  whom  he 
himself  was  now  in  the  act  of  ruining  his  property 
and  selling  everything,  even  to  his  trophies  of 
victory,  that  the  king's  signature  might  not  be  pro- 
tested. .  .  Ah !  if  he  could  only  avenge  himself! 
if  he  could  only  unhook  from  those  panoplies  two 


384  Kings  in  Exile. 

weapons,  no  matter  which.  .  .  But  —  it  was  the 
king  !  satisfaction  cannot  be  asked  of  kings.  And 
suddenly  the  magic  of  that  consecrated  word  ap- 
peased his  anger ;  and  he  ended  by  telling  himself 
that,  after  all,  Monseigneur  trifling  with  that  young 
woman  was  not  so  guilty  as  he,  Due  de  Rosen,  in 
marrying  his  son  for  money  to  that  little  Sauvadon. 
He  bore  the  penalty  of  his  own  cupidity.  .  .  These 
reflections  scarcely  lasted  a  minute.  The  letters 
safely  under  lock  and  key,  he  left  the  house,  re- 
turning to  his  post  at  Saint-Mand6,  to  the  desk 
in  his  office  where  piles  of  bills  and  documents 
awaited  him,  among  which  he  noticed  more  than 
once  the  big  and  straggling  writing  of  those  love- 
letters;  and  Christian,  as  he  passed  through  the 
courtyard  and  saw  behind  the  window,  erect,  de- 
voted, vigilant,  the  long  outline  of  the  Demon  of 
Ill-luck,  never  once  supposed  that  he  was  well- 
informed  of  everything. 

None  but  kings  with  all  the  national  and  super- 
stitious traditions  attaching  to  their  persons,  can 
inspire  such  devotions  as  these,  but  they  inspire 
them  even  though  they  themselves  be  completely 
unworthy.  This  king,  now  that  the  boy  was  out  of 
danger,  "  made  fete  "  with  greater  vehemence  than 
ever.  At  first,  he  endeavoured  to  return  to  Sephora. 
Yes,  even  after  he  had  been  so  brutally  and  cyni- 
cally dismissed ;  after  he  had  had  the  proof,  and 
every  proof  of  her  treachery,  he  still  loved  her 
enough  to  rush  to  her  feet  at  the  slightest  sign. 
She  was  now  in  all  the  joy  of  a  renewed  honey- 
moon. Cured  of  her  ambitions,  restored  to  her 


Fides,  Spes.  385 

tranquil  nature,  from  which  the  bait  of  millions 
had  drawn  her,  Sephora  would  have  preferred  to 
sell  the  house  in  the  Avenue  de  Messine,  realize  its 
value,  live  at  Courbevoie  with  J.  Tom,  like  a  pair  of 
rich  retired  merchants,  and  crush  the  Sprichts  with 
their  comfort.  J.  Tom  Levis,  on  the  contrary, 
dreamed  of  new  strokes ;  and  the  grandiose  sur- 
roundings in  which  his  wife  was  installed  gave  him, 
little  by  little,  the  idea  of  another  Agency,  in  a 
more  luxurious,  more  fashionable  form;  a  gloved 
traffic,  doing  business  amid  the  flowers  and  music 
of  fetes,  around  the  lake,  on  the  long  scent,  replac- 
ing the  played-out  cab  (now  numbered  and  rele- 
gated to  a  street-cab  company)  with  a  gorgeous 
cvlhhe  and  liveries,  bearing  the  arms  of  Madame 
la  comtesse.  He  had  not  much  difficulty  in  con- 
vincing Sephora,  with  whom  he  now  definitively 
lived ;  and  the  salons  of  the  Avenue  de  Messine 
were  lighted  up  for  a  series  of  dinners  and  balls, 
the  invitations  for  which  were  sent  out  in  the  name 
of  the  Comte  and  Comtesse  de  Spalato.  At  first 
the  company  was  rather  sparse.  Then  the  femi- 
nine element,  rebellious  in  the  beginning,  took  to 
treating  J.  Tom  Levis  and  wife  as  rich  foreign  per- 
sonages coming  from  a  great  distance,  whose 
luxury  made  their  exoticism  correct.  All  the 
young  Gomme  crowded  around  Sephora,  now 
much  the  fashion  through  her  adventures,  and  M. 
12  Comte,  as  soon  as  the  winter  season  had  fairly 
begun,  had  several  very  good  affairs  on  hand. 

They  could  not,  of  course,  refuse  to  Christian 
an  entrance  into  salons  that  had  cost  him  so  dear. 

25 


386  Kings  in  Exile. 

Besides,  the  title  of  king  made  the  house  noted 
and  guaranteed  it.  So  he  went  there,  basely,  with 
the  vague  hope  of  a  return  to  the  heart  of  his  mis- 
tress, not  indeed  by  the  grand  portico,  but  by  some 
back-stairs  entrance.  Er.t  after  trying  for  a  time 
this  role  of  dupe  or  victim,  and  showing  himself 
weekly,  as  white  in  face  as  in  linen,  in  those  gilded 
salons,  where  the  glaring  eyes  of  Tom  Levis  watched 
and  pinned  him,  he  grew  discouraged,  came  no 
more,  and  went  among  prostitutes,  to  divert  his 
mind.  Like  all  men  .in  search  of  a  type  once  lost, 
he  wandered  everywhere  and  fell  low,  very  low, 
guided  by  Lebeau,  well  used  to  all  forms  of  Parisian 
vice,  who  often  brought  his  master's  valise  of  a 
morning  to  strange  lairs.  A  low  downfall,  becom- 
ing easier  day  by  day  to  the  flaccid  soul  of  that  vo- 
luptuary, whose  sad,  calm  home  was  not  of  a  kind 
to  keep  him  from  it.  There  was  little  amusement  at 
Saint-Mande  now  that  Me"raut  and  the  princess 
were  no  longer  there.  Leopold  V.  was  slowly 
recovering,  confided,  for  the  period  of  convales- 
cence to  Mme.  fileonore  de  Silvis,  who  at  last  was 
able  to  apply  the  precepts  of  the  Abbe  Diguet  on 
the  six  methods  of  knowing  men,  and  the  seven 
means  of  avoiding  flattery;  lessons  hindered  by 
the  bandage  round  the  head  of  the  little  patient, 
and  presided  over,  as  before,  by  the  queen,  with 
many  an  agonized  glance  at  her  Clematis  Dalma- 
tica,  the  little  flower  of  exile  now  in  process  of 
etiolation  before  her  eyes.  For  some  time  past 
the  Franciscans  had  been  in  search  of  a  tutor ;  but 
an  Elyse"e  Me"raut  is  not  easy  to  find  among  the 


Fides,  Spes.  387 

youth  of  these  times.  Pere  Alphee  had  his  own 
ideas  on  the  subject,  which  he  kept  himself  from 
uttering,  because  the  queen  would  not  allow  even 
the  name  of  the  former  tutor  to  be  spoken  before 
her.  Once  only,  under  special  circumstances,  did 
the  monk  dare  to  speak  of  his  friend. 

"  Madame,  Elysee  Meraut  is  about  to  die,"  he 
said  to  abruptly  her  as  they  left  the  table  one  day 
after  grace. 

During  all  the  time  of  his  stay  at  Saint-Maude 
Meraut  had  kept  his  chamber  in  the  Rue  Monsieur- 
le-Prince  from  a  sort  of  superstition,  like  that 
which  induces  us  to  keep  on  the  shelf  of  a  closet 
some  old-fashioned  garment  of  our  youth  which 
we  shall  never  again  put  on.  He  never  went  there, 
letting  forgetfulness  and  dust  heap  itself  on  the 
papers,  the  books,  the  mystery  of  that  silent  re- 
treat amid  the  noisy  life  of  the  lodging-house. 
But  one  day  he  returned  to  it,  aged,  weary,  his 
hair  almost  white.  The  stout  landlady,  roused 
from  her  torpor  by  hearing  some  one  fumbling 
among  the  keys  hanging  to  their  nails,  had  diffi- 
culty in  recognizing  her  lodger. 

"  Why,  what  tricks  have  you  been  playing  with 
yourself,  my  poor  Monsieur  Meraut?"  she  cried. 
"  It  is  n't  right  to  ruin  your  health  in  that  way." 

"  True,  I  am  rather  battered.  .  ."  replied  filysee, 
smiling;  and  he  mounted  the  five  stories,  round- 
shouldered,  stooping,  crushed.  The  room  was 
just  the  same,  with  the  melancholy  outlook  from  its 
dusty  windows  —  over  square  monastic  roofs,  the 


3<3S  Kings  in  Exile. 

E!cole  de  Medicine,  the  Amphitheatre ;  cold,  irre- 
sponsive buildings  exhaling  the  sadness  of  their 
purpose  ;  and  on  the  right,  toward  the  Rue  Racine, 
the  two  great  tanks  of  the  city  water,  shining  in 
their  reservoirs  and  reflecting  the  wan  sky  and  the 
smoking  chimneys.  Nothing  was  changed  ;  but  in 
him  there  was  no  longer  that  glorious  ardour  of 
youth  which  colours  and  warms  all  about  it,  rising 
enthusiastic  amid  difficulties  and  gloom.  He  tried 
to  settle  himself  to  read,  to  shake  the  dust  from 
work  he  had  left  unfinished.  Between  his  thoughts 
and  the  page  before  him  glided  that  reproachful 
glance  of  the  queen,  and  at  the  other  end  of  the 
table  he  fancied  he  saw  his  pupil,  awaiting  his 
lesson  and  listening  to  him.  He  felt  himself  too 
heart-broken,  too  desolate,  and  hurriedly  he  went 
down  again  and  put  back  his  key  on  its  nail. 

Thenceforth,  he  was  seen  as  before,  a  tall,  loose- 
jointed  figure  with  his  hat  on  the  back  of  his  head, 
a  package  of  books  or  reviews  under  his  arm, 
wandering  through  the  Quarter,  under  the  arcades 
of  the  Odeon,  or  along  the  Quai  Voltaire  ;  bending 
over  the  odour  of  new  editions,  or  the  coarse  piles 
of  refuse  literature ;  reading  in  the  street,  in  the 
alleys  of  the  Luxembourg,  or  gesticulating  as  he 
leaned  of  a  cold  winter's  day  against  some  statue 
in  the  garden  and  stared  at  a  frozen  fountain.  In 
this  atmosphere  of  study  and  of  intelligent  youth, 
which  no  march  of  improvement  has  been  able  to 
demolish  or  to  drive  altogether  away,  he  recovered 
something  of  his  inspiration  and  his  fire.  But  no 
longer  did  he  have  the  same  auditors,  for  the  flood 


Fides,  Spes.  389 

of  students  is  ever  changing  and  renewing  itself  in 
this  Quarter  of  birds  of  passage.  The  places  of 
meeting  were  also  changed ;  the  political  cafes 
were  deserted  now  for  those  breweries  where  the 
waiting  is  done  by  girls  in  costumes,  Swiss,  Italian, 
Swedish,  draped  by  some  artist  in  vogue,  and 
decked  in  jaunty  tinsel.  Of  Elysee's  former  rivals, 
the  fine  orators  of  his  day,  Pesquidoux  of  the 
"  Voltaire  "  and  Larminat  of  the  "  Procope,"  noth- 
ing remained  except  a  vague  recollection  in  the 
memory  of  the  waiters,  like  that  of  actors  gone 
from  the  footlights.  Some  had  mounted  high,  very 
high,  to  power,  to  public  life  ;  and  occasionally  when 
Elysee  was  wandering  along  the  shop-fronts,  read- 
ing, his  hair  flying  in  the  wind,  from  a  passing 
carriage  some  noted  personage  of  the  Chamber  or 
the  Senate  would  call  to  him :  "  Meraut !  Meraut !  " 
They  talked  together.  .  .  "  What  have  you  been 
doing?  .  .  are  you  working  at  anything?  .  ."  And 
Meraut,  his  forehead  wrinkling,  would  speak  vaguely 
of  a  great  enterprise  "which  had  not  succeeded." 
Never  a  word  more.  They  tried  to  drag  him  forth, 
to  utilize  those  lost  powers.  But  no,  he  was  faith- 
ful to  his  monarchical  ideas  and  his  hatred  to  the 
Revolution.  He  asked  nothing;  he  needed  no 
one;  nearly  all  the  money  he  had  earned  in  his 
post  remained  to  him,  so  that  he  did  not  even  seek 
for  pupils.  He  shut  himself  up  in  a  disdainful 
sorrow,  too  great,  too  deep  to  be  understood  by 
others,  and  wholly  without  distraction  —  beyond 
a  few  visits  to  the  convent  of  the  Franciscans,  not 
merely  to  obtain  news  of  Saint-Mande,  but  be- 


390  Kings  in  Exile. 

cause  he  loved  the  fantastic  chapel  with  its  cave  of 
Jerusalem  and  the  coloured,  bleeding  Jesus.  That 
artless  mythology,  those  almost  pagan  representa- 
tions, were  the  joy  of  Christians  in  the  earlier  cen- 
turies. "  Philosophers  have  placed  God  too  high," 
he  said  sometimes.  "We  cannot  see  him  any 
longer."  But  he,  he  saw  Him  in  the  twilight  of 
that  crypt,  where  amid  the  images  of  barbarous 
punishment,  beside  the  Marguerite  d'Ossuna  flag- 
ellating the  marble  of  her  shoulders,  he  beheld 
again  that  vision  of  a  Christmas  night,  a  queen, 
her  arms  extended,  imploring  yet  protecting,  folded 
with  clasped  hands  around  her  son,  before  the 
manger.  .  . 

One  night  Elysee  was  awakened  with  a  start,  by 
a  singular  sensation  of  heat  rising  in  his  breast 
slowly  as  if  by  a  surge ;  and  without  pain,  without 
shock,  but  with  a  sense  of  final  annihilation,  his 
mouth  wTas  filled  with  a  sickening  mass  of  blood. 
It  was  mysterious  and  sinister,  —  disease  coming 
suddenly  like  an  assassin  who  opens  the  doors 
without  noise  in  the  darkness.  He  was  not 
alarmed,  and  merely  consulted  some  medical  stu- 
dents at  the  place  where  he  dined.  They  told  him 
he  was  very  ill.  "What  is  it?"  "Everything," 
they  answered.  He  had  reached  the  climacteric 
forty  years  of  bohemia,  where  infirmity  lies  in 
wait,  watching  for  man  and  making  him  pay  dear 
for  the  excesses  or  the  privations  of  his  youth ; 
terrible  age ;  above  all,  when  the  moral  spring  is 
broken,  when  the  will  to  live  is  gone. 

Elysee  continued  to  lead  the    same  existence ; 


Fides,  Spes.  391 

always  out  of  doors,  in  the  rain,  in  the  wind ;  pass- 
ing from  overheated  rooms,  stifling  with  gas,  to  the 
cold  of  the  streets  in  winter,  continuing  to  ramble 
along  the  sidewalks  when  the  cafes  were  closed 
for  the  greater  part  of  the  night.  The  haemoptyses 
became  more  frequent,  frightful  lassitude  succeed- 
ing them.  In  order  not  to  stay  in  bed,  for  the 
desolate  melancholy  of  his  chamber  weighed  upon 
him,  he  installed  himself  in  the  "  Rialto,"  a  brewery 
close  to  the  lodging-house,  where  he  read  the 
newspapers  and  dreamed  in  a  corner.  The  place 
was  quiet  until  evening,  gay  with  its  light  oak  fur- 
niture, and  its  walls  daubed  with  frescos,  repre- 
senting Venice,  its  bridges,  its  cupolas  in  vistas  on 
a  rainbow  sky.  Venetian  girls  themselves,  lively 
enough  when  evening  came  and  they  flitted  about 
with  their  leather  pouches  between  the  tables,  their 
coral  necklaces  reflected  in  the  beer-glasses,  slept 
by  day  with  their  heads  on  their  arms,  crumpling 
their  lace  caps  and  the  puffs  of  their  muslin 
sleeves ;  or  else  were  employed  beside  the  stove 
in  needle-work,  which  at  times  they  laid  aside  to 
drink  at  a  table  with  a  stray  student.  One  of 
them,  a  tall  strong  girl,  with  fine,  thick,  tawny 
hair  rolled  high,  and  grave,  slow  movements, 
would  pause  now  and  then  at  her  embroidery  to 
listen.  .  .  At  this  one  Meraut  gazed  for  hours, 
until  she  spoke  to  him;  and  then  the  rough  and 
vulgar  voice  put  his  dream  to  flight. 

Soon,  however,  his  strength  failed  him  for  even 
these  quiet  sittings  behind  the  curtain  of  the 
brewery.  He  could  no  longer  come  down  the 


392  Kings  in  Exile. 

stairs,  and  was  forced  to  stay  in  bed,  surrounded  by 
books  and  newspapers;  leaving  his  door  ajar  that 
the  life  and  rumble  of  the  house  might  reach  him. 
He  was  not  allowed  to  talk.  It  was  then  that  he 
resigned  himself  to  write;  he  resumed  his  book, 
his  famous  book  on  monarchy,  and  continued  it 
feverishly  with  a  trembling  hand,  shaken  by  a 
cough  that  scattered  the  pages  on  his  bed.  He 
now  feared  but  one  thing:  to  die  before  he  fin- 
ished it ;  to  go  as  he  had  lived,  hidden,  unknown, 
unuttered. 

Sauvadon,  the  Bercy  uncle,  whose  enormous, 
turbulent  vanity  suffered  in  seeing  his  master  in 
this  miserable  lodging,  came  often  to  visit  him. 
Directly  after  the  catastrophe  he  had  rushed,  purse 
open,  to  obtain,  as  before,  "  ideas  about  things." 
"  Uncle,  I  have  no  more,"  replied  Me"raut,  despond- 
ently. And  then,  to  draw  him  from  his  apathy, 
old  Sauvadon  talked  of  sending  him  to  the  South, 
to  Nice,  to  share  in  the  sumptuous  establishment 
of  Colette  and  her  little  W. 

"  It  won't  cost  me  any  more,"  he  said  naYvely, 
"  and  you  '11  get  cured." 

But  filys6e  did  not  care  to  be  cured ;  he  wanted 
to  finish  his  book  in  the  place  of  its  birth,  among 
those  deep  Parisian  rumblings,  where  each  man 
hears  the  dominating  sound  that  suits  him.  Even 
while  he  wrote,  Sauvadon,  sitting  at  the  foot  of  the 
bed,  would  gossip  about  his  pretty  niece  and  work 
himself  into  a  rage  against  that  old  idiot  of  a 
general  who  was  selling  his  house  on  the  lie  Saint- 
Louis. 


Fides,  Spes.  393 

"  I  ask  you  now  what  he  can  do  with  all  that 
money.  He  must  heap  it  in  holes,  in  hiding- 
places.  .  .  But  after  all,  that 's  his  affair.  .  .  Colette 
is  rich  enough  to  do  without  him.  .  ." 

And  the  wine-merchant  tapped  his  stomach, 
tight  as  a  drum,  on  the  side  of  his  fob. 

Another  time,  flinging  on  the  bed  a  bundle  of 
newspapers  which  he  had  brought  to  filysee,  he 
burst  out  with  :  "  They  say  there  's  something  go- 
ing on  in  Illyria.  .  .  They  have  just  sent  a  royal- 
ist majority  to  the  Diet.  .  .  Ah  !  if  there  was  only 
a  man  there  !  .  .  But  that  little  Leopold  is  still  too 
young,  and  Christian  is  degrading  himself  lower 
and  lower  every  day.  .  .  He  is  frequenting  all  the 
lairs  and  the  dance-halls  with  that  valet  of  his.  .  ." 

FJysee  listened,  shuddering  from  head  to  foot. 
Poor  queen  !  .  .  The  other  continued,  without  per- 
ceiving the  harm  he  was  doing :  — 

"  Fine  goings-on  among  those  exiles  !  .  .  There 's 
Prince  d'Axel  compromised  in  a  filthy  affair  in  the 
Avenue  d'Antin.  .  .  You  know,  that  family  hotel 
with  its  patriarchal  name  which  serves  as  a  refuge 
for  'emancipated  girls.  .  .  What  a  scandal !  —  an 
heir-apparent !  .  .  One  thing,  however,  puzzles 
me.  .  .  At  the  very  time  the  thing  happened, 
Colette  wrote  me  that  Prince  d'Axel  was  in  Nice, 
and  she  had  been  to  a  regatta  in  a  yacht  hired  for 
her  by  his  Highness.  .  .  Certainly  there  must  be 
some  mistake.  And  I  hope  there  is  ...  because, 
between  ourselves,  my  dear  Meraut  .  .  ." 

And  here  the  old  fellow  confided  very  mysteri- 
ously to  his  friend  that  the  prince-royal  appeared 


394  Kings  in  Exile. 

to  be  extremely  assiduous  to  Colette ;  and  as  she 
was  not  a  woman  to  ...  you  understand  ...  it 
might  be  that  before  long  .  .  . 

The  big  workman's  face  of  the  parvenu  lighted 
up  with  a  smile :  — 

"  Think  of  that !  Colette  Queen  of  Finland !  .  . 
and  Sauvadon  of  Bercy  the  uncle  of  a  king !  .  . 
But  I  am  tiring  you." 

"  Yes,  I  want  to  go  to  sleep  .  .  ."  said  filys6e, 
who  had  closed  his  eyes  as  a  civil  means  of  getting 
rid  of  the  kindly,  conceited  old  fellow. 

Sauvadon  gone,  he  gathered  up  his  papers 
and  tried  to  write,  but  not  a  word  would  come  to 
him ;  he  was  seized  with  disgust  and  utter  lassi- 
tude. The  hideous  tales  had  sickened  him.  .  . 
Before  those  pages  scattered  on  his  bed,  —  that 
plea  for  royalty  on  which  he  was  spending  the 
little  that  remained  to  him  of  blood,  —  seeing  him- 
self, there,  in  that  sordid  chamber,  with  the  gray 
hairs  of  an  old  student,  so  much  passion  spent  and 
strength  squandered,  he  doubted  for  the  first  time, 
he  asked  himself  if  indeed  he  had  been  a  dupe  all 
his  life.  .  .  A  defender,  an  apostle?  .  .of  kings 
who  degraded  themselves  in  pleasures,  and  deserted 
their  own  cause !  .  .  And  while  his  eyes  roved 
sadly  along  those  naked  walls,  where  the  sun  only 
came  by  reflection  from  the  roofs,  he  saw,  in  its 
dusty  frame,  the  old  relic,  the  red  seal,  Fides, 
Spes,  which  he  had  taken  from  the  pillow  of  his 
dead  father.  All  at  once  the  noble  Bourbonian 
face  of  old  Meraut  rose  up  before  him,  such  as  he 
had  seen  it,  rigid  on  the  death  bed,  asleep  in  his 


Fides,  Spes. 

confidence  and  his  sublime  fidelity,  the  looms 
stopped,  the  windmills  on  the  horizon  between  the 
arid  rocks  of  the  coast  and  the  pitiless  blue  of  the 
Southern  sky.  It  was  a  moment  of  hallucination, 
the  Enclos  de  Rey,  all  his  youth  floating  in  a 
memory  which  was  now  failing.  .  . 

Suddenly  the  door  opened  softly  with  a  murmur 
of  drapery  and  voices.  He  thought  it  was  a 
neighbour,  some  kind  girl  of  the  Rialto  who  had 
brought  him  a  drink  for  his  fever.  Quickly  he 
closed  his  eyes;  for  sleep  dismissed  the  unwel- 
come. But  no ;  a  hesitating  little  step  came 
towards  him  on  the  cold  brick  floor  of  the  cham- 
ber. "  Bonjour,  Monsieur  filysee  ".  .  .  His  pupil 
is  before  him,  timid,  a  little  grown,  and  looking 
with  the  shyness  of  his  infirmity  at  the  master  so 
changed,  so  pale,  in  that  poor  bed.  Beyond,  by 
the  door,  a  woman  waited,  erect  and  proud  beneath 
her  veil.  She  has  come  herself,  she  has  climbed  the 
five  storeys  of  that  staircase  filled  with  the  noises  of 
debauchery,  brushing  with  her  immaculate  robe 
the  doors  that  bear  the  tickets  "  Alice  .  .  .  Cle"m- 
ence.  .  ."  She  would  not  let  him  die  without  see- 
ing —  once  more  —  his  little  Zara ;  not  entering 
herself,  she  sent  him  her  forgiveness  by  the  hand 
of  her  child.  That  hand,  Iilyse'e  Me"raut  took  it, 
and  pressed  it  to  his  lips ;  then,  turning  to  the 
apparition  that  he  divined  to  be  there  on  the 
threshold  of  his  door,  with  his  last  breath,  with  his 
last  effort  of  life  and  speech,  he  said  in  a  low 
voice,  and  forever :  "  Vive  le  roi !  " 


396  Kings  in  Exile. 


XVIII. 

THE  END  OF  A  RACE. 

A  ROUGH  game  was  being  played  at  the  Tennis 
club.  Around  the  immense  field  of  beaten  ground, 
trampled  like  an  arena,  a  great  netting  protected 
with  its  close  meshes  the  evolutions  of  six  players 
in  white  jackets  and  fencing  shoes,  who  were 
bounding,  shouting,  and  waving  their  heavy  rackets. 
The  light  in  the  amphitheatre  coming  from  high 
windows,  the  hoarse  cries,  the  springs,  the  darts  of 
those  white  beings,  the  impassible  correctness  of 
the  attendants  of  the  hall  (all  Englishmen)  walking 
with  measured  step  around  the  outer  gallery, 
might  have  made  an  onlooker  believe  he  was  at 
some  circus  during  a  rehearsal  of  gymnasts  and 
clowns.  Among  the  clowns,  Monseigneur  the 
Prince  d'Axel,  to  whom  the  noble  game  of  tennis 
had  been  ordered  as  hygienic  for  his  coma,  could 
be  reckoned  as  one  of  the  noisiest.  Arriving  the 
night  before  from  Nice,  where  he  had  spent  a 
month  at  Colette's  feet,  this  game  was  his  re- 
entrance  into  Parisian  life,  and  he  was  sending  his 
ball  with  the  "  haw !  "  of  a  butcher's  boy  and  a 
swing  of  the  arm  that  was  worthy  of  admiration  at 
the  shambles,  when  they  came  to  inform  him  at  the 
height  of  the  game  that  some  one  wanted  him. 


The  End  of  a  Race.  397 

"  Zut ! "  responded  the  heir  presumptive,  with- 
out turning  his  head. 

The  servant  insisted,  and  whispered  a  name  in 
Monseigneur's  ear  which  calmed  him  and  ap- 
peared to  surprise  him. 

"  Very  good :  beg  him  to  wait.  .  .  I  '11  come  .  .  . 
as  soon  as  I  have  made  this  stroke." 

Entering  one  of  the  bathrooms  opening  from  the 
gallery  round  the  tennis-court  and  coquettishly 
hung  with  Japanese  mattings  and  furnished  in 
bamboo,  he  found  his  friend  Rigolo,  crouching  on 
a  divan,  his  head  down. 

"  Oh  !  prince,  such  an  adventure  !  "  exclaimed 
the  ex-king  of  Illyria,  raising  a  troubled  face. 

He  stopped  short  on  seeing  an  attendant  with 
napkins  and  woollen  and  horsehair  gloves  to 
sponge  and  rub  down  Monseigneur,  who  was 
sweating  and  smoking  like  a  Mecklenburger  climb- 
ing a  hill.  The  operation  over,  Christian  con- 
tinued, his  lips  quite  white  and  shuddering. 

"  Something  has  happened  to  me.  .  .  You  must 
have  heard  down  in  Nice  of  the  affair  in  the 
family  hotel?"  .  . 

His  Highness  turned  his  dull  glance  upon  his 
friend. 

"Caught?"  he  said. 

The  king  nodded,  turning  away  his  pretty,  irres- 
olute eyes.  Then,  after  a  silence :  — 

"  You  can  imagine  the  scene.  .  .  The  police  in 
the  middle  of  the  night  .  .  .  the  little  girl  crying, 
struggling  with  the  agents  .  .  .  clinging  to  my 
knees,  '  Monseigneur  .  .  .  Monseigneur  .  .  .  save 


398  Kings  in  Exile. 

me  ! '  I  tried  to  hush  her.  .  .  Too  late.  .  .  When 
I  gave  a  name,  I  don't  know  what,  the  commis- 
sary laughed.  '  Useless,'  he  said,  '  my  men  know 
you.  .  .  You  are  Prince  d'Axel.  .  .' " 

"  Very  good  of  him !  "  growled  the  prince,  his 
head  in  a  basin  of  water.  .  .  "  And  then?  " 

"  Well,  then,  my  dear  fellow,  I  was  taken  so 
short,  I  was  so  dashed  .  .  .  and  other  reasons  that 
I  '11  tell  you  later.  .  .  In  short,  I  let  the  man 
think  I  was  you,  being  quite  convinced  at  the 
time  that  the  affair  would  have  no  consequences.  .  . 
I  was  mistaken.  They  have  brought  it  up  again, 
and  as  you  are  likely  to  be  summoned  before 
the  examining  judge,  I  have  come  to  entreat 
you  .  .  ." 

"  To  go  to  prison  in  your  place?  .  ." 

"  Oh !  things  won't  come  to  that.  Only  the 
newspapers  will  get  hold  of  it,  names  will  be 
given.  .  .  And  just  at  this  moment  .  .  .  when  mat- 
ters are  going  right  in  Illyria,  a  royalist  movement 
started,  our  restoration  almost  certain,  the  scandal 
would  have  the  very  worst  effect.  .  ." 

What  a  pitiable  air  he  had,  that  unfortunate 
Rigolo,  awaiting  the  decision  of  his  cousin  d'Axel, 
who  was  silently  combing  his  three  yellow  hairs 
before  the  glass.  At  last  the  prince-royal  decided 
to  answer. 

"  So  you  think  that  the  newspapers  .  .  ."  Then 
suddenly,  in  his  weak,  sleepy,  ventriloqual  voice, 
he  cried  :  "  Chic  !  .  .  very  chic  !  It  will  put  my 
uncle  into  a  fury." 

Being  now  dressed,  he  took  his   stick,  planted 


The  End  of  a  Race.  399 

his  hat  on  one  ear,  and  said :  "  Come,  let 's  go  to 
breakfast."  Arm-in-arm  along  the  terrace  of  the 
Feuillants  they  proceeded  to  Christian's  phaeton, 
which  was  waiting  at  the  gate  of  the  Tuileries,  and 
both  got  into  it,  wrapped  in  their  furs,  the  day 
being  fine  with  a  cold,  rosy  light,  and  the  slender 
equipage  started  like  the  wind  for  the  Cafe  de 
Londres  bearing  the  two  inseparables :  Rigolo, 
much  comforted,  and  Queue-de-Poule  less  som- 
nolent than  usual,  being  spurred  by  his  tennis 
game  and  the  thought  of  the  villany  of  which  all 
Paris  would  believe  him  the  hero. 

As  they  drove  through  the  Place  Vendome, 
always  very  nearly  deserted  at  this  hour,  a  woman 
of  elegant  appearance  and  young,  leading  a  child 
by  the  hand,  was  standing  on  the  sidewalk,  look- 
ing up  at  the  numbers  on  the  houses.  His  High- 
ness, who  from  his  lofty  seat  was  looking  at  all  the 
pretty  faces  with  the  avidity  of  a  boulevardicr 
who  has  been  fasting  for  a  month,  saw  her,  and 
quivered.  "  Look,  look,  Christian.  .  .  One  might 
almost  think  .  .  ."  But  Christian  did  not  listen ;  he 
was  busy  looking  after  his  horse,  which  happened 
to  be  lively  that  morning ;  and  when  he  did  turn 
round  in  the  narrow  carriage  to  look  at  the  hand- 
some woman,  she  and  the  child  had  just  entered 
the  archway  of  the  house  that  stands  next  to  the 
Ministry  of  Justice. 

She  walked  quickly,  her  veil  down,  rather  hesi- 
tating and  anxious,  as  if  uncertain  of  the  locality; 
and  though  her  mysterious  manner  and  dark,  over- 
rich  attire  might  make  her  for  an  instant  seem 


400  Kings  in  Exile. 

doubtful,  the  name  she  asked  of  the  porter,  the 
tone  of  deep  sadness  with  which  she  uttered  that 
name  (one  of  the  most  famous  in  the  annals  of 
science)  removed  far  away  from  her  all  idea  of 
gallantry. 

"Doctor  Bouchereau?  .  .  First  floor,  door  in 
front  of  you.  .  .  But  if  you  have  no  ticket  it  is 
useless  to  go  up." 

She  made  no  answer,  but  sprang  up  the  stair- 
case, dragging  the  child  after  her,  as  if  afraid  of 
being  recalled.  At  the  first  floor  she  was  told  the 
same  thing. 

"  If  Madame  has  not  put  down  her  name  .  .  ." 

"  I  will  wait,"  she  said. 

The  servant,  without  insisting,  led  them  across  a 
first  antechamber  where  persons  were  seated  on 
wooden  benches,  and  then  through  a  second 
equally  full ;  after  which  he  opened  with  solemnity 
the  door  of  the  grand  salon  and  shut  it  again  the 
instant  the  mother  and  child  had  passed  through, 
as  if  to  say:  "You  wanted  to  wait  .  .  .  now  wait." 

It  was  a  vast  room,  very  lofty  like  all  the  first 
floors  of  the  Place  Vendome,  sumptuously  deco- 
rated with  painted  ceilings  and  pannelled  wain- 
scots. Scattered  around,  and  quite  out  of  keeping 
with  the  room  and  with  each  other,  were  articles 
of  furniture  in  garnet  velvet,  provincial  in  shape, 
curtains  and  portieres  of  the  same  material,  with 
chairs  and  cushions  in  worsted-work.  The  Louis 
XVI.  lustre  above  an  Empire  round  table,  the 
clock,  with  mythological  figures  between  its  two 
candelabra,  the  absence  of  all  signs  of  art,  revealed 


The  End  of  a  Race.  401 

the  modest,  hard-working  physician  to  whom  his 
vogue  has  come  unexpectedly  and  without  his 
taking  any  pains  to  await  or  receive  it.  And  what 
a  vogue  !  Such  as  Paris  alone  can  give  when  it 
chooses,  extending  to  all  classes,  the  upper  and 
lower  of  social  life,  overflowing  to  the  provinces,  to 
foreign  parts,  to  all  Europe  in  fact;  and  this  for 
the  last  ten  years  without  relaxing  or  diminishing, 
and  with  the  unanimous  approbation  of  the  medi- 
cal brotherhood,  who  owned  that  for  once  at  least 
success  had  gone  to  a  true  man  of  science  and  not 
to  a  disguised  charlatan.  That  which  had  won 
such  fame  for  Bouchereau,  such  extraordinary 
following,  was  less  his  marvellous  skill  as  an  opera- 
tor, his  admirable  lessons  on  anatomy,  his  knowl- 
edge of  the  human  being,  than  the  light,  the 
divination  which  guided  him,  clearer,  firmer  than 
the  steel  of  his  instruments,  that  genial  eye  of  the 
great  thinkers  and  poets,  which  does  magic  with 
science,  and  sees  to  the  depths,  and  beyond  them. 
He  was  consulted  like  a  Pythoness,  with  blind,  un- 
reasoning faith.  When  he  said  :  "  This  is  nothing 
at  all  .  .  ."  the  lame  walked,  and  the  dying  were 
cured ;  hence  his  popularity,  urgent,  suffocating, 
tyrannical,  denying  to  the  man  himself  the  time 
to  live,  to  breathe.  Head  of  the  staff  of  a  great 
hospital,  he  made  his  rounds  every  morning, 
slowly,  with  minute  care,  followed  by  attentive 
students  who  regarded  the  master  as  a  god,  es- 
corted him,  and  handed  him  their  instruments  — 
for  Bouchereau  never  had  a  case  with  him,  and 
borrowed  from  the  nearest  person  the  tool  he 

26 


4O2  Kings  in  Exile. 

needed,  which  he  regularly  forgot  to  return. 
When  he  left  the  hospital  he  paid  a  few  visits, 
but  was  soon  back  in  his  own  study,  and,  often 
without  taking  time  to  eat,  he  began  his  consulta- 
tions, which  were  frequently  prolonged  very  late 
into  the  evening. 

On  this  occasion,  though  it  was  scarcely  more 
than  midday,  the  salon  was  already  full  of  gloomy, 
anxious  faces,  ranged  in  a  line  around  the  walls,  or 
grouped  near  the  round  table ;  some  bending  over 
the  books  and  the  illustrated  papers,  scarcely  turn- 
ing to  look  at  the  new  arrivals,  each  preoccupied 
by  himself,  shut  up  in  his  own  ailment,  absorbed  in 
anxiety  as  to  what  doom  the  oracle  might  pro- 
nounce. It  was  sinister,  the  silence  of  these  pa- 
tients with  their  hollow  features  furrowed  by  pain, 
their  languid  glance  burning  occasionally  with  cruel 
fire.  The  women  still  retained  a  certain  coquetry, 
some  of  them  the  mask  of  a  haughty  superiority  to 
suffering;  whereas  the  men,  snatched  from  their 
work,  from  the  physical  activity  of  life,  seemed  to 
be  more  affected,  more  completely  beaten  down. 
Among  these  self-absorbed  distresses  the  mother 
and  her  little  companion  formed  a  touching  group ; 
he  so  frail,  so  pallid,  with  a  tiny  face  dull  in 
feature  and  in  colour,  in  which  there  was  but 
one  eye  left  —  she  motionless,  as  if  congealed  into 
some  great  and  dreadful  anxiety.  Once,  tired  of 
waiting,  the  child  went  awkwardly,  timidly,  to  fetch 
a  picture  from  the  table.  Moving  in  his  maimed 
way  his  arm  struck  a  patient,  and  he  received 
in  return  so  surly  and  frowning  a  glance  that 


The  End  of  a  Race.  403 

he  returned  to  his  seat  with  empty  hands  and  sat 
there,  motionless,  his  head  on  one  side  in  that 
attitude  of  a  roosting  bird  which  is  common  to 
blind  children. 

A  true  suspension  of  life,  this  waiting  at  the  door 
of  a  great  physician;  a  hypnotism,  broken  only 
by  a  sigh,  a  cough,  a  skirt  gathered  in,  a  smothered 
moan,  or  the  tinkle  of  the  bell,  announcing  the 
arrival  of  another  patient.  Sometimes  the  new- 
comer, seeing  the  room  so  full,  would  close  the 
door  quickly;  then,  after  a  colloquy,  a  short  dis- 
pute, would  enter  again,  resigned  to  wait.  With 
Bouchereau  there  was  no  favouritism,  each  had  his 
turn ;  he  made  no  exception,  beyond  the  members 
of  his  own  profession  in  Paris  or  the  provinces  if 
they  brought  him  one  of  their  clients.  They  alone 
had  the  right  to  send  in  their  cards  and  were  al- 
lowed to  enter  out  of  turn.  These  men  could  be 
distinguished  by  their  familiar,  authoritative  air, 
and  the  vigorous  step  with  which  they  trod  the 
salon,  looking  at  their  watches  and  wondering,  as 
it  was  past  mid-day,  that  nothing  seemed  stirring 
in  the  consulting-room.  People,  more  people,  and 
of  all  kinds,  from  the  heavy,  obese  banker,  who 
had  had  a  servant  in  the  salon  since  morning 
keeping  two  chairs  for  him,  down  to  the  little 
clerk  who  had  said  to  himself:  "  Cost  what  it 
may,  I  '11  consult  Bouchereau."  All  sorts  of  toilets, 
all  kinds  of  deportment,  bonnets  of  ceremony  and 
muslin  caps,  black,  threadbare  gowns  beside  bril- 
liant satins ;  but  equality  was  there  in  the  eyes  red 
with  tears,  the  anxious  brows,  the  terrors  and  the 


404  Kings  in  Exile. 

sorrows   that    haunted    that    salon    of   the   great 
physician  of  Paris. 

Among  the  last  comers  was  a  peasant,  fair- 
haired,  tanned,  broad  of  face  and  of  build,  accom- 
panied by  a  small  rickety  being  who  leaned  on 
one  side  upon  him,  on  the  other  upon  a  crutch. 
The  father  is  taking  the  most  touching  precau- 
tions ;  he  bends  beneath  his  new  blouse  a  back 
already  bent  by  labour,  he  unlimbers  his  coarse 
fingers  to  seat  the  child  carefully.  "  Comfortable, 
so?  sit  easy?  .  .  Wait  till  I  put  this  cushion  under 
you.  .  ."  He  speaks  in  a  loud  voice,  not  embar- 
rassed himself,  but  disturbing  everybody  to  get 
chairs  and  a  stool.  The  child,  intimidated  and 
refined  by  suffering,  was  silent,  his  body  drooping, 
his  crutches  between  his  legs.  As  soon  as  they 
were  fairly  settled  the  peasant  began  to  laugh, 
with  tears  in  his  eyes :  "  Hey !  here  we  are !  .  . 
He  's  a  famous  one,  he  is !  .  .  He  '11  cure  you." 
Then  he  smiled  all  round  him  on  the  assemblage, 
a  smile  that  came  into  collision  with  the  hard 
coldness  of  the  faces  present.  The  lady  in  black, 
she,  too,  accompanied  by  a  child,  alone  looked 
kindly  at  him;  and  although  she  seemed  rather 
proud,  he  talked  to  her,  told  her  his  history :  his 
name  was  Raizou,  market-gardener  at  Valenton; 
his  wife  was  almost  always  ill ;  unfortunately,  their 
children  took  after  her  instead  of  him,  so  vigorous 
and  strong.  The  three  eldest  were  dead  of  some 
disease  they  had  in  the  bones.  .  .  The  last  one 
seemed  as  if  they  could  bring  him  up.  .  .  but  for 
some  months  now  it  had  caught  him  in  the  hip, 


The  End  of  a  Race.  405 

like  the  others.  .  .  So  he  had  just  thrown  a  mat- 
tress on  the  bottom  of  the  carryall,  and  brought 
him  to  see  Bouchereau. 

All  this  was  said  sedately,  in  the  slow,  drawling 
way  of  the  country-folk ;  and  while  his  neighbour 
listened  to  him  with  sympathy,  the  two  little 
maimed  ones  examined  each  other  curiously, 
drawn  together  by  a  common  infirmity  which 
gave  them  both,  the  child  in  a  blouse  and  woollen 
muffler,  and  the  child  wrapped  in  velvet  and  costly 
furs,  a  melancholy  resemblance.  .  . 

But  a  quiver  ran  through  the  room,  colour  flew 
up  into  pallid  faces,  and  all  heads  turned  to  the 
lofty  door  behind  which  steps  were  heard  and  seats 
were  moved.  He  is  there ;  he  has  come.  In  the 
frame  of  the  door,  now  opened  brusquely,  a  man 
appears,  of  medium  height,  stocky,  square-shoul- 
dered, his  forehead  bald,  his  features  hard.  With 
a  glance  that  crosses  many  an  anxious  look,  his 
eyes  go  round  the  salon  and  scrutinize  those  suf- 
ferings, old  or  recent.  .  .  Then  one  of  them 
passes  into  the  room  and  the  door  closes.  "  He 
is  n't  good-natured,"  said  Raizou,  half  aloud ;  and 
to  give  himself  courage  he  began  to  watch  the 
people  who  went  before  him  to  the  consultation. 
A  crowd  they  were,  and  hours  of  waiting  followed, 
marked  only  by  the  dragging,  echoing  strokes  of  the 
old  provincial  clock  surmounted  by  a  Polyhymnia, 
and  the  rare  apparitions  of  the  doctor.  Each  time, 
however,  one  place  was  gained,  and  a  little  stir,  a 
little  life  appeared  in  the  salon  ;  falling  back  almost 
immediately  into  gloom  and  immobility. 


406  Kings  in  Exile. 

Since  her  entrance,  the  mother  has  not  said  a 
word  nor  raised  her  veil ;  and  from  her  silence, 
perhaps  from  her  mental  prayer,  something  issues, 
something  so  imposing  that  the  peasant  dares  no 
longer  talk  to  her,  and  is  mute  himself,  heaving 
great  sighs.  Once  he  draws  from  his  pocket, 
from  one  of  his  many  pockets,  a  little  bottle,  a 
goblet,  and  a  biscuit  in  paper  which  he  unfolds 
slowly,  carefully,  that  he  may  give  his  boy  "  a 
sop."  The  child  just  moistens  his  lips,  then  he 
pushes  away  the  glass  and  the  biscuit.  "  No  .  .  . 
no  ...  I  am  not  hungry.  .  ."  And  before  that 
poor  contorted  figure,  so  weary,  the  father  thinks 
of  his  three  elder  ones  who  never  were  hungry 
either.  His  eyes  swell,  his  cheeks  tremble  at  the 
thought,  and  suddenly :  "  Don't  stir,  my  boy.  .  . 
I  '11  just  go  see  if  the  carryall  is  all  right."  Several 
times  already  has  be  been  down  to  see  if  that 
carryall  is  still  by  the  sidewalk,  at  the  same 
place ;  and  each  time  he  comes  back  smiling, 
his  face  beaming;  and  he  fancies  that  no  one 
will  see  his  reddened  eyes,  or  his  cheeks  purple 
from  being  rubbed  by  those  great  fists  to  stanch 
his  tears. 

The  slow,  sad  hours  pass.  In  the  salon,  now 
darkening,  the  faces  seem  more  pale,  more  ner- 
vous; they  turn  in  supplication  to  the  unmoved 
Bouchereau  as  he  makes  his  appearance  periodi- 
cally. The  man  from  Valenton  is  grieving  now 
that  their  long  drive  home  must  be  at  night;  the 
wife  will  be  so  anxious,  the  little  one  will  surely 
take  cold.  His  grief  is  keen,  expressed  aloud  with 


The  End  of  a  Race.  4.07 

a  naivete  so  touching  that  when,  after  five  mortal 
hours  of  waiting,  the  mother  and  child  see  their 
turn  at  last  come  round  they  yield  it  to  Raizou. 
"  Oh  !  thank  you,  madame.  .  .  "  His  effusion  of 
gratitude  is  not  oppressive,  for  the  door  is  open  for 
him.  Quick  he  lifts  his  child,  gives  him  his  crutch, 
so  troubled,  so  agitated,  that  he  does  not  see  what 
the  lady  puts  into  the  hand  of  the  poor  little  crip- 
ple. "  For  you  ...  for  you.  .  .  " 

Oh !  how  long  to  the  mother  and  child  is  that 
last  waiting,  increased  by  the  night  now  falling, 
and  the  deepening  apprehension  that  chills  their 
hearts !  At  length  their  turn  has  come ;  they 
enter  a  vast  cabinet,  vast  in  length,  lighted  by  one 
broad,  high  window,  which  opens  on  the  Place 
Vendome,  and  through  which  the  daylight  enters 
although  the  hour  is  late.  Bouchereau's  table  is 
there  before  them,  very  simple,  the  table  of  a 
country  doctor  or  a  receiver  of  registrations.  He 
sits  down  at  it,  his  back  to  the  light,  which  strikes 
full  upon  the  new-comers,  —  on  that  woman,  whose 
raised  veil  shows  a  young,  energetic  face,  with  a 
dazzling  complexion  and  eyes  that  are  weary  with 
sorrowful  vigils,  and  on  the  child,  lowering  his 
head  as  if  the  strong  light  hurt  him. 

"  What  is  the  matter  with  him  ?  "  said  Bouche- 
reau  in  a  kindly  tone,  drawing  the  boy  to  him  with 
a  fatherly  gesture ;  for  beneath  the  hardness  of  his 
face  lay  an  exquisite  sensibility  which  the  forty 
years  of  his  profession  had  never  blunted.  Before 
the  mother  answered  she  made  a  sign  to  the  child 
that  sent  him  to  the  end  of  the  room.  Then  in  a 


408  Kings  in  Exile. 

beautiful  grave  voice,  with  a  foreign  accent,  she 
told  how  her  son  had  lost  his  right  eye  by  an  ac- 
cident a  year  ago.  Now  some  trouble  had 
appeared  in  the  left  eye,  cloudiness,  dazzlings,  a 
decided  alteration  in  the  sight.  To  avoid  com- 
plete blindness,  she  was  advised  to  have  the  right 
eye  removed  entirely.  Could  that  be  done  ?  Was 
the  child  in  a  fit  state  to  bear  it? 

Bouchereau  listened  with  attention,  leaning  over 
the  arm  of  his  chair,  his  small  Touranian  eyes  fixed 
on  that  proud  mouth,  with  the  red  lips,  never 
touched  by  paint,  which  told  of  the  pure  blood  in 
them.  Then,  when  the  mother  had  finished  speak- 
ing, he  said :  — 

"The  operation  suggested  to  you,  madame,  is 
done  daily  and  without  danger,  unless  under  cer- 
tain very  exceptional  circumstances.  .  .  Once  only 
in  twenty  years  have  I  had  in  my  practice  —  at 
Lariboisiere  —  a  poor  devil  who  could  not  stand 
it.  .  .  It  is  true  he  was  an  old  man,  a  rag-picker, 
alcoholized  and  ill-fed.  .  .  Here  the  case,  of 
course,  is  not  the  same.  .  .  Your  son  does  not 
look  strong,  but  he  comes  of  a  beautiful  and 
healthy  mamma,  who  has  put  into  his  veins.  .  . 
But  we  will  see  about  it,  at  any  rate." 

He  called  the  child,  put  him  between  his  legs, 
and  in  order  to  distract  his  mind  while  he  examined 
him  he  asked  him  with  a  kindly  smile :  — 

"  What  is  your  name  ?  " 

"  Leopold,  monsieur." 

"Leopold  what?" 

The  boy  looked  at  his  mother  without  answering. 


The  End  of  a  Race.  409 

"  Well,  Leopold,  you  must  take  off  your  jacket 
and  your  waistcoat.  .  .  So  that  I  may  feel  every- 
where, and  listen." 

The  child  slowly  and  awkwardly  unfastened  his 
clothes,  aided  by  his  mother,  whose  hands  trem- 
bled, and  by  the  fatherly  Bouchereau,  more  skilful 
than  either.  Oh !  that  poor  little  puny,  rickety 
body,  the  shoulders  sinking  into  narrow  chest,  like 
the  wings  of  a  bird  folded  before  it  flies,  and  the 
skin  so  livid  that  the  scapulary  and  the  medals 
scarcely  showed  upon  it,  or  the  plaster  of  an  ex- 
voto.  The  mother  lowered  her  head,  almost 
ashamed  of  her  work,  while  the  doctor  kneaded 
and  auscultated  the  poor  body,  stopping  now  and 
then  to  ask  questions. 

"  The  father  is  an  old  man,  is  he  not?  " 

"  No,  monsieur.  .  .     Barely  thirty-five." 

"Often  ill?" 

"  No,  hardly  ever." 

"  That  will  do  ...  you  can  dress  yourself,  my 
little  man." 

He  threw  himself  back  in  his  great  arm-chair, 
silent,  pensive,  while  the  child,  after  putting  on 
his  blue  velvet  jacket  and  his  furs,  went  back  to 
the  end  of  the  room  though  no  one  had  told  him 
to  do  so.  He  was  now  so  accustomed  to  these 
mysteries,  these  whisperings  about  his  infirmity, 
that  he  took  no  notice  of  them,  did  not  try  to 
understand  them,  and  cared  no  longer.  But  the 
mother,  what  agony  was  in  the  look  she  gave  the 
doctor ! 

"Well?" 


410  Kings  in  Exile. 

"  Madame,"  said  Bouchereau,  in  a  low  voice, 
measuring  every  word,  "  it  is  true  that  your  child 
is  threatened  with  loss  of  sight.  And  yet  ...  if 
he  were  my  son  I  should  not  operate.  .  .  With- 
out entirely  explaining  to  myself  that  little  nature, 
I  perceive  strange  disorders  in  it,  a  disturbance  of 
the  whole  system,  and,  above  all,  a  most  vitiated, 
exhausted  blood  —  " 

"  The  blood  of  kings !  "  groaned  Frederica, 
rising  abruptly  in  a  fierce  revolt.  Before  her,  sud- 
denly, she  saw,  in  its  little  coffin  filled  with  roses, 
the  pallid  face  of  her  first-born.  Bouchereau, 
rising  also,  enlightened  by  those  words,  recognized 
the  Queen  of  Illyria,  whom  he  had  never  seen,  for 
she  went  nowhere,  but  whose  portraits  were  in 
everybody's  album. 

"  Oh  !   madame  ...     If  I  had  known  .  .  ." 

"  Do  not  excuse  yourself,"  said  Frederica,  already 
more  calm.  "  I  came  here  to  know  the  truth,  that 
truth  which  is  never  told  us,  even  in  exile.  .  .  Ah  ! 
Monsieur  Bouchereau,  queens  are  indeed  unfortu- 
nate !  To  think  that  every  one  is  urging  me,  per- 
secuting me  to  let  my  child  be  operated  on  !  And 
yet  they  know  well  that  it  would  kill  him.  .  .  But 
reasons  of  State  !  .  .  In  a  month,  in  two  weeks, 
less  perhaps,  the  Diet  of  Illyria  will  send  to  us.  .  . 
They  want  to  have  a  king  to  show  them.  .  .  Such 
as  he  is  now,  it  might  be  done ;  but  blind  !  Who 
would  have  him?  .  .  So,  at  the  risk  of  killing  him, 
I  must  allow  the  operation  !  .  .  Reign  or  die.  .  . 
And  I  was  about  to  make  myself  the  accomplice 
of  that  crime.  .  .  Poor  little  Zara !  .  .  What  matter 


The  End  of  a  Race.  411 

if  he  reign,  O  my  God !  .  .  let  him  live !    let  him 

live !.  .  ." 

Five  o'clock.  Daylight  is  fading.  In  the  Rue 
de  Rivoli,  crowded  with  equipages  returning  from 
the  Bois,  the  carriages  are  driven  at  a  foot-pace, 
following  the  railings  of  the  Tuileries  gardens, 
which  seem,  as  they  are  struck  by  the  setting  sun, 
to  lie  in  long  bars  upon  the  occupants.  The  sky, 
in  the  direction  of  the  Arc  de  Triomphe  is  still 
suffused  with  a  ruddy  boreal  glow;  on  the  other 
side,  already  a  mournful  violet  is  deepening  into 
night  the  shadows.  To  that  side  rolls  the  heavy 
landau  that  bears  the  Illyrian  arms.  At  the  turn- 
ing to  the  Rue  Castiglione  the  queen  can  see  once 
more  that  balcony  of  the  hotel  des  Pyramides,  she 
remembers  the  illusions  of  her  first  day  in  Paris, 
singing  to  her  as  she  stood  there,  like  the  music 
of  the  band  as  it  played  among  the  trees.  What 
deceptions  since !  What  struggles !  Now,  all  is 
ended,  ended.  The  race  is  extinct.  .  .  A  chill,  as 
of  death,  falls  upon  her  shoulders  while  the  landau 
moves  onward  to  the  shadows,  always  to  the 
shadows,  and  she  does  not  see  the  tender,  timid, 
imploring  glance  that  the  child  at  her  side  turns 
towards  her. 

"  Mamma,  if  I  am  no  longer  a  king,  will  you  love 
me  all  the  same  ?  " 

"  Oh,  my  treasure  !  .  ." 

Passionately  she  presses  the  little  hand  put 
out  to  meet  hers.  .  .  Yes,  the  sacrifice  is  made. 
Warmed,  comforted  by  that  clasp,  Frederica  is  a 


412  Kings  in  Exile. 

mother  only;  and  when  the  Tuileries,  their  ashes 
gilded  by  a  departing  ray,  rise  up  before  her  to 
recall  the  past,  she  gazes  at  them  without  emotion, 
without  memory,  as  though  she  looked  upon  some 
ancient  ruin  of  Assyria  or  of  Egypt,  the  witness 
of  manners  and  of  morals  and  of  peoples  vanished ; 
a  grand  old  dead  past  —  gone. 


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